#bts j-hope scenario

[greenxgloss]

Im new to Tumblr and took me an eternity to find the freaking ask button! *clears throat* anyway!

Can I please request a fix where you’ve been an solo idol for about 3 to five years now and you really found success so naturelly you buy a new house so you throw a house worming party with your idol friends including your Hybe friends but Yoongi can not keep his hands of you cause of your outfit so you snuck of to somewhere In the house and well you know… no need for smit if you don’t like! And you where teased the rest of the night lol. And maybe during the dinner part of the soirée your friends threatened to leak your embarrassing pictures if you don’t release an album soon. You can be as creative as you’d like if your up for it haha

Side note: you let Yoongi after you debut at a Hybe artist reunion party.

I know this might be alog

Youd be surpised how long it took me to understand how tumblr works and I'm still figuring shit out after being on here for years dw bby. thank you so much for the request I hope you enjoy reading xoxo

Summary: At your housewarming party, Yoongi's lingering touches and heated gaze reignite a long-simmering attraction between you, pushing your teasing friendship to its breaking point. With the music and laughter of your friends just outside the door, you surrender to the tension, finally giving in to the desire that had always simmered beneath the surface. Themes: Flirtatious!Yoongi x Clueless!Reader, SoftDom!Yoongi, Smut, F!Reader, F oral receiver, Drunk characters, mention of alcohol, little tiny bit of comedy and slight peer pressure but in a funny way. Word Count: 4k

The bass from the speakers pulsed through the walls, a steady rhythm that matched the excitement buzzing in the air. Your housewarming party was in full swing—idol friends scattered across your new home, drinks in hand, laughter spilling into every corner. The success of your solo career had allowed you to upgrade to a place like this, and tonight was all about celebrating.

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting your pearlecent butterfly top and smoothing out the pockets of your low-rise flared jeans. With a spin, you glanced back at the sweet embroidered design on the back pockets and smiled at your reflection.

You had spent weeks planning everything—down to the smallest detail—ensuring the night would be as perfect as your career had been these past few years. But as much as you wanted to enjoy yourself, it was becoming increasingly difficult under Yoongi’s burning gaze.

From the moment you opened the door to welcome your HYBE friends, his eyes had been locked on you. The outfit you’d chosen—The butterfly top in specific was very revealing—It had been a bold choice, but you hadn't expected this level of distraction. Every time you moved, every time you leaned over to refill a glass or turned to laugh at something someone said, you could feel Yoongi’s presence like a magnet, pulling you in. Your back was fully exposed and your cleavage on full display. The glitter sprayed over your chest, complimenting the chrome pearls around your neck and the matching ones hanging from your ears. 

You had met him early on, back when you were still just a trainee—wide-eyed, hungry for success, and eager to prove yourself. It was during those long, exhausting practice days that you first crossed paths with Bangtan, their presence in the building a constant reminder of the level of success you were striving toward. They were already established- legends in the making, but despite the difference in status, they treated you kindly. Yoongi, in particular, had always caught your attention.

From the beginning, there was something effortless about the way the two of you interacted. Your conversations were laced with playful teasing, subtle touches, and lingering eye contact that hinted at something more. The attraction was always there, simmering just beneath the surface, but nothing ever came of it. Timing was never in your favor—he was busy with his career, and you were too focused on building your own name to entertain the thought of something serious. So, instead, you settled into a dynamic that felt safe: a flirty friendship that never quite crossed the line.

Until tonight.

It started with the small things—his hand resting a second too long on the small of your back as he passed by, his breath ghosting over your ear when he leaned in to speak, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. You tried to ignore it, pretend like it wasn’t sending heat through your veins, but the knowing smirk on his face told you he could see right through you.

And then, you snapped.

The second you found an opening and everyone was distracted and consumed by the loud music, you grabbed Yoongi’s wrist and subtly pulled him away from the main party, slipping down a hallway where the music faded into the background. He barely had time to question it before you were on him, pressing him against the wall with a teasing smirk.

Yoongi’s gaze traveled down from your eyes to your cleavage, and he began smiling, tongue clamped between his teeth. 

“Whats with you tonight?” you asked in a whisper, looking over your shoulder, down the hall toward the party. 

“You just look so good tonight; you’re making it really hard to be a gentleman.” he gulped, looking back up into your eyes. You scoffed playfully in return. “You’re such a pervert,” you giggled, grabbing his arm and pulling him into your room.

Yoongi chuckled, the deep rumble of his laughter sending shivers down your spine as he bit his lip, eyes dark with want. He reached behind him, blindly pushing the door shut before his hands found their place on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, wrapped around you like a haze.

“You dressed so—fuck," he rasped, his voice low and strained, breath fanning against your ear. "You practically have your tits out, and you expected me to just act normal?”

His words sent heat rushing through you, pooling deep in your stomach as his hands roamed your exposed skin, fingertips skimming over the curve of your hips, down your sides, up your back. His touch was slow, teasing, like he was savoring every inch of you. His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, lips brushing against your pulse point before pressing open-mouthed kisses there, sucking lightly, leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“Shit—Yoongi,” you whined, his name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Your fingers instinctively tangled into his hair, twisting and pulling, eliciting a low groan from him. His grip on your hips tightened in response, his body pressing even closer to yours as he guided you backward, step by step, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

A delicious shiver shot up your spine, settling in your head like a drug. Your breath hitched as Yoongi pulled back slightly, his lips barely grazing yours, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

“Mmh,” he hummed, his voice dripping with need. "I wanna hear you say my name like that again.”

Yoongi kissed your lips with hunger, lowering you down on the bed gently. He pulled away to unbutton his jeans. 

A loud noise could be heard from outside causing you and Youngi to snap your attention toward the door. Your stomach sank.

“Fuck sake, kook.” you heard jimin cuss at Jungkook, probably picking his drunk bones off the ground and walk him to the bathroom.

You glanced back up at Yoongi, catching his gaze just as he turned toward you. The moment your eyes met, laughter bubbled up between you, a shared understanding passing between the two of you without a single word.

“God, they’re so annoying,” Yoongi groaned, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair, his dark eyes flickering with amusement. “My heart is pounding.” His chuckle was warm, breathless, as if the weight of the possibility of being walked in on had begun fading away.

Before you could respond, he suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed.

“Wait, what are you—”

“Doesn’t look like I’ll have time for more than a drink,” he murmured, voice thick with something sinful as his fingers found the button of your jeans.

Your breath hitched as he expertly popped it open, the slow, deliberate way he peeled the denim down your thighs making your skin prickle with anticipation. The cool air of the room kissed your now-exposed skin, sending a shiver up your spine. And then, his eyes darkened—his playful smirk faltering for just a second as his gaze fell to the light blue G-string hugging your hips, the darkened patch of fabric giving away just how much you wanted him.

Yoongi exhaled sharply, his brows twitching as if he was physically restraining himself. “That’s just amazing,” he breathed out, his voice tinged with an almost reverent chuckle.

Your stomach clenched at his words, the intensity of his stare making you feel bare in ways that had nothing to do with clothing. Your body betrayed you, heat pooling in your core, thighs instinctively pressing together. The whole situation had you weak—your voice caught in your throat, words completely failing you.

“All I did was touch you,” he mused, amusement dancing in his tone. “And you’re already like this?”

Your face burned, and a nervous scoff left your lips as you averted your gaze. “That’s embarrassing,” you muttered, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

Yoongi, however, was having none of it. His hands slid up your thighs, warm and grounding, his touch sending a new wave of electricity through your veins. “No. What? I love it,” he said, voice still soft but firm. “You need me just as much as I need you.”

The way his words curled around you, the way they soaked into your skin and settled deep inside your chest—it was intoxicating. It wasn’t just what he said but how he said it. His voice, laced with something raw and unfiltered, sent a rush of heat flooding through your body, a warmth that spread like the first shot of tequila you’d taken earlier that night.

“Yoongi,” you whined, the sound escaping before you could stop it, your body acting on pure impulse as your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him up.

He let out a low chuckle, but the moment his lips met yours, the teasing melted into something deeper. He smiled against your mouth, his hands sliding around your waist as he pulled you flush against him. The kiss was slow, lingering—like he was savoring the taste of you, the moment, the way you trembled in his hands.

Yoongi’s touch was electric, his palm warm as it pressed against your chest, fingers expertly kneading the soft flesh of your breast. A shiver coursed through you, your body responding instantly, a quiet moan slipping past your lips and into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss for just a moment longer before pulling away, his dark eyes flickering with something teasing, something hungry.

“That good?” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement, yet laced with something deeper—something that made your stomach clench and your legs press together involuntarily. His gaze was locked onto your face, drinking in every twitch of your features, every shallow breath as his hand trailed lower. The tips of his fingers danced over your stomach, feather-light and torturously slow, before reaching the delicate lace of your thong.

You nodded quickly, barely able to breathe, anticipation thick in the air. But Yoongi wasn’t satisfied with just that. His lips curled into a smirk as he bit down gently on his lower lip. “You’ve never had a problem using your words before,” he mused, his voice dropping an octave, a sultry rasp that sent heat shooting through your core.

His fingers slipped beneath the thin fabric, the heat of his touch making your breath hitch as he traced a slow, teasing line down your center. Your body betrayed you, hips jerking slightly at the sensation, your skin prickling with anticipation.

A whimper bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it, your pride barely keeping you from giving him exactly what he wanted so easily. But he knew. He always knew.

Yoongi’s lips brushed against the corner of your mouth, his breath fanning over your skin as his fingers dipped lower, his teasing touch barely there. “Nothing to say now, huh?” he hummed, his voice smug, filled with satisfaction at the way you were unraveling under him.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, the sound almost deafening in your ears. Every nerve in your body was set ablaze, strung so tight that you thought you might snap at the slightest push. The air between you felt thick, charged, like a live wire sparking with tension. Yoongi was toying with you, reveling in the way your body trembled under his touch, in the way your lips parted but no words came out—only desperate little breaths, whimpers that he drank in like they were the sweetest sound in the world.

He was waiting. Waiting for you to break, to give in, to beg. To say his name in that way that made his self-control slip, in that way that had him coming undone right alongside you.

And God, you were so close.

Your pride clashed violently with your desperation, the last remnants of your restraint slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter, your legs twitching as his fingers continued their slow, torturous path. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe through the heat suffocating your body, through the molten ache between your thighs.

"Please." The word barely left your lips, a whisper, a plea, laced with so much raw need that even you barely recognized your own voice.

Yoongi exhaled sharply, his smirk deepening. He loved this. Loved seeing you like this—messy, desperate, completely at his mercy. "Please what, hmm?" he teased, voice low, dangerously smooth, yet thick with desire. His fingers slowed just enough to drive you insane, barely brushing against your clit in agonizing circles, the wet sounds filling the air between you. The sensation sent a new wave of heat flooding through you, burning from the inside out, making your thighs tremble around him.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbled in Yoongi’s chest at the sound, at the way you clenched around nothing, already so worked up just from his teasing. The sight of you—needy, eyes heavy with lust, lips swollen from kissing—had his own restraint hanging by a thread, heat stirring violently in his stomach, in his core, matching yours in intensity.

You let out a soft whimper, your hands fisting the sheets beneath you as you forced yourself to meet his eyes, your own glazed over with want. "I need you. Please." Your voice cracked, your breath hitching as another slow stroke sent a shiver up your spine.

Yoongi’s smirk faltered for just a second, something darker flashing behind his eyes at your words, at the way you were completely unraveling beneath him. He licked his lips, letting his fingers dip lower just to watch you squirm.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice nothing more than a sultry whisper against your flushed skin. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he slowly slicked two fingers into your heat, thrusting them at a steady slow pace. He kept his eyes on your face, licking his lips.

Your walls fluttered around his fingers, your body instinctively gripping him tighter with every curl, every slow, deliberate stroke. It was almost unbearable—the way he had you spread open, how his fingers pumped into you with a steady, unrelenting pace, each thrust sending sparks of electricity through your veins. You were drenched, the wet sounds echoing in the room, mixing with your breathless whimpers and the occasional low groan from Yoongi.

You held onto his shoulder like a lifeline, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, needing something—anything—to ground yourself. Every sensation felt heightened, overwhelming. The heat between your thighs was suffocating, each movement pushing you closer to the edge, and you knew Yoongi could feel it. He could feel how tight you were, how your body clenched and trembled around him, desperate for more.

"Fuck," he exhaled, his voice a mix of restraint and admiration. His eyes flickered between your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, and the way you writhed under him. "Your pussy feels so good, so tight." His words sent another wave of heat washing over you, pooling in your stomach, making you whimper as he quickened his pace.

You could tell he was struggling to keep his composure. The way his jaw clenched, the way his free hand gripped your thigh possessively, the way his breathing had become just as unsteady as yours—it was obvious. His erection was straining against his jeans, pressed so tightly against the fabric that it had to be painful, but still, he made no move to relieve himself.

Because tonight was about you.

And just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, when your body was on the verge of collapsing under the pleasure, Yoongi suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, leaving you empty and aching. You whined at the loss, your hips instinctively bucking up, chasing the friction, but before you could even protest, he was already shifting lower, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as he spread you open beneath him.

His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, glistening, needy, completely at his mercy. "Fuck, look at you," he murmured, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, making you shiver.

And then, without another word, he dipped his head down and dragged his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of you.

Your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as he moaned against you, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Yoongi ate you out like he was starving, like he had been waiting for this all night, his tongue lapping at you, flicking and circling your clit in a way that made you see stars.

You were lost in it, lost in him—your body melting, pleasure building so intensely it was almost unbearable. And judging by the way Yoongi groaned against you, his own frustration mounting with every second, he was just as lost in you. 

Yoongi’s swollen lips wrapped around your clit, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud before sucking it into his mouth with a slow, deliberate pull. A sharp gasp left your lips, your fingers tangling tighter into his dark hair as heat pooled in your core. He was relentless, tongue working against you in fluid, hungry strokes, savoring every sound that spilled from your mouth.

His grip on your thighs tightened, fingers digging into your skin as if grounding himself, keeping you spread open for him, completely at his mercy. He let out a low, guttural growl against your heat, the vibrations sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your spine. "Fuck," he exhaled, lips wet with evidence of how much you needed him. His tongue delved deeper, lapping at your slick folds before flicking back up to your clit, teasing, tormenting. Your back arched off the mattress, breath hitching as he pushed you further into that delicious, intoxicating edge of pleasure.

“Right there, right there,” you mewled, barely coherent, and he hummed against you in response, sending another wave of pleasure straight to your core. He wanted more. He needed more. The way you writhed, the way you moaned his name like a prayer—he was addicted. 

You couldn't quite describe how you felt. It was like an itch deep in your stomach that only Yoongi could reach, your back arching off the bed with a squeaking gasp, your hips rutting against his nose. 

“Fuck im gonna cum yoongi.” your jaw slack, eyes glued shut and grasp on his hair tightening with every flick of his tongue. Yoongi trailed his hands up to your hips, spurring you on to grind against his face, fuck yourself on his face. He began slurping down your cunt loudly, the sound planting a sweet itch at your core similar to when youre trying to remember a word and its on the tip of your tongue but you cant quite get it.

The sudden clench of your walls had Yoongi moving instinctively, his hand swiftly covering your mouth before the inevitable moan could escape. His grip was firm but careful, as though he knew exactly how your body would betray you. Your thighs tightened around his head in response, the tension spurring him on as he devoured you through the aftershocks of your climax. His tongue worked tirelessly, determined to savor every drop of you until the overstimulation had you writhing beneath him.

“Too much, Yoongs,” you gasped, voice breathless as your fingers found purchase in his hair, tugging with just enough desperation to make him groan against you. Your body trembled, vision blurred, but he wasn’t finished. The taste of you was intoxicating—his newfound favorite indulgence—and he wasn’t ready to part from it just yet.

Eventually, he relented, emerging from between your legs with a satisfied hum. A thin sheen of sweat glistened along his forehead, his lips swollen and glistening from his efforts. He watched you for a moment, drinking in the sight of your spent body before pressing slow, lingering kisses up your stomach. When his lips finally found yours, the kiss was deep, unhurried—possessive. He made sure to leave them swollen, a reminder of what had just transpired between you.

You could taste yourself on him, the remnants of your arousal mixing with the faint trace of tequila lingering on your own tongue. Yoongi pulled back just slightly, his breath fanning over your lips as he smirked.

“We should get back before someone comes looking for you,” he murmured, voice low, warm. His eyes roamed over your dazed expression, the way your body still trembled slightly in the aftermath. “You look too pretty like this—fucked out and glowing. I think I’d like to keep that to myself.”

Before you could respond, he stole another kiss, this one brief but teasing, before pushing himself to his feet. He disappeared into the washroom, giving himself a once-over in the mirror while you hurried to gather your composure, pulling your bottoms back on.

“That doesn’t sound crazy at all,” you mused, giggling as you ran a brush through your hair, then lightly dusted setting powder across your flushed skin. A spritz of perfume, a quick reapplication of deodorant, and you were ready.

Together, you navigated your way back to the party with careful steps, eyes darting around to ensure no one had noticed your absence. Just before you stepped into view, you reached up, fluffing his hair to make him look a little less disheveled. Yoongi caught your wrist before you could pull away, pressing one final kiss to your palm, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Then, as if nothing had happened, you rejoined the party.

When the two of you finally emerged—slightly disheveled but expertly composed—your friends were already onto you. You cleared your throat as you fixed your hair and readjusted your top, looking over at Yoongi who still has some of your cum on his chin. Your eyes widened in mortification, and you quickly rushed to wipe it off with your thumb. An afterglow ever-present on both your faces though you’d scrambled to touch up your makeup before rushing out and quickly fixing up your hair

"Nice of you to rejoin us," Hoseok teased, wiggling his eyebrows up and down, red solo cup clutched in his hands. You giggled while Yoongi rolled his eyes. 

Jimin grinned. "We were taking bets on how long you'd be gone."

"You’re all insufferable," you groaned, sinking into your armchair and glancing around the room to see if anyone else had noticed. Yoongi gave you a sympathetic smile. Of course, the Bangtan boys had kept track of each other at parties. Of course, they noticed he was gone, and of course, they noticed the host of the party was also missing. Your openly flirtatious relationship with Yoongi being well known enough amongst them, they immediately connected the dots.

"Oh, we’re not done yet," Namjoon smirked, pulling a handful of photocards from his back pocket and waving them in your face.  "Drop an album soon, or these go public."

Your stomach dropped at the sight of your most embarrassing pre-debut photos. “What the fuck!” you exclaimed somehow still in a whisper and you tried reaching for the photos but he pulled back. “Joon!” you yelled, dragging out in a whine. 

Your hair was an ugly burnt auburn with blonde money pieces, you dressed in the whimsical indie style that had been overused and overdone back when you’d debuted. What you hated the most about your appearance at the time was your acne, which you covered with very, very heavy makeup not doing your skin any favours.

The color drained from your face.

"First of all, you, of all people, should know that writing music isn't that simple," you huffed, exasperation clear in your voice.

Namjoon only chuckled, taking a slow sip of his beer before leveling you with a smirk. "Then get on it," he teased, slipping the photos into his pocket with a deliberate nonchalance.

Jimin, freshly emerged from the guest bathroom, caught the exchange and rolled his eyes. "He won't do anything, don't worry," he muttered, dragging an inebriated Jungkook behind him.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as the conversation shifted, the night continuing with the usual banter. Whatever Namjoon had planned, you knew he’d wait—he always did. And for now, you could enjoy the moment and be hopeful for what time held for Yoongi and you.

➽ Yoongi Masterlist ➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Taglist Form

[champagnevi]

₊✧.⋆˚ hoseok's realization

hoseok, who was mesmerized the first time he saw you dance, captivated by the way you connected with the music, his eyes unconsciously following you for the rest of the rehearsal.

hoseok, who always tried to have you among his lead dancers whenever he had to choose, making sure to give you a spot by his side.

hoseok, who would casually approach your group during rehearsals, always looking for a chance to learn more about you.

hoseok, who was stunned when you agreed to go out to dinner with him… and the whole team. growing closer to you during those dinners, getting to know you little by little.

hoseok, who always made sure you had water and got enough rest during rehearsals, watching how hard you pushed yourself—staying behind long after everyone else had left, repeating the choreography over and over.

hoseok, who never failed to ask how you were feeling before stepping on stage, and every time you gave him a smile, his heart would pound a little harder, his own smile settling permanently on his face.

hoseok, who, the first time you asked him for help with some steps, noticed how your hands trembled with nerves and how you avoided meeting his eyes—feeling a tightness in his chest, vowing never to let you feel that way again.

hoseok, who gently assured you that you could always count on him and softly asked you to please look him in the eyes.

hoseok, who felt his entire face heat up when he realized jin had witnessed the whole interaction—only for jin to quickly apologize and bolt out of the room.

hoseok, who started making up the silliest excuses just to talk to you. "hey, do you think my new dance move makes me look cool or just unhinged?" he’d ask, dramatically demonstrating some exaggerated footwork—just to hear you laugh.

hoseok, who found himself tripping over his own feet the first time you actually complimented him—his usual effortless grace completely failing him.

hoseok, who swore he wasn’t nervous around you… until he knocked over an entire row of water bottles in the practice room because he was too focused on you.

hoseok, who couldn’t stop himself from glancing at you in the mirror every time you danced beside him—watching the way you moved, how the music seemed to live in your body.

hoseok, who kept waiting for you to notice. notice the way his teasing wasn’t just friendly, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his touch—when he helped adjust your posture or guided you through a step—was careful, lingering just a little more than necessary.

hoseok, who finally had enough of waiting.

so on a quiet evening, after a long rehearsal, when the team was packing up, he did something ridiculous just to get your attention.

he pretended to slip—not dramatically enough to make a scene, but just enough to stumble right into your path, making you jolt in surprise. "oops," he grinned sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. "guess I got a little distracted."

you laughed, shaking your head at him, completely unaware of the warmth in his gaze.

and that’s when he finally said it.

"wanna go for a walk by the river with me?"

your head tilted slightly. "right now?"

"yeah," he said, his voice softer this time, more real. "just us."

and when you nodded, his smile was so wide, so pure, that even the stars above the river couldn’t compare.

[c0llisiion]

DAY 4 — HOSEOK

★ npr, f!reader, dubcon, intoxicated!reader, ceo!jh, fingering— lmk if i missed any!; W/C: 625

Hello! This is part of my kinktober list! Day4 is officially out <3

This is strictly fiction. Any scenario or situation should not be taken seriously. Please refrain from reading if the topics make you uncomfortable.

[ visuals <3 (18+!) ]

You didn’t know what was going on. Your mind was elsewhere. Blown. Hazy. One thing you know is you were drinking your 4th shot of tequila, and the next thing is you feel slender, long fingers rubbing your pussy, seemingly in the oh so familiar room of your bosses. You could feel a hot breath against you, murmuring words that you weren’t able to register; all you could feel was his fingers slowly teasing your hole. 

You threw your head back as the desire started coursing through your veins. “Yeah… just like that… relax for me…” he said softly. You gulped, feeling yourself get hotter and wetter as he continued venturing into your pussy. “Mmm… I always wanted to do this yk..?” He said with a dark chuckle. You turned your head towards the voice, and your eyes went wide at the sight that beheld you. Your own boss. Hoseok immediately catches the fact that you noticed him and plunges his fingers in your pussy, earning a soft whine from you. Your back arched off his chest, and your hand lazily held onto his wrist as his ring and middle finger immediately curled into your sopping wet pussy. You whine and whimper. “Shhh… its alright… i got you… i got you alright? Just relax for me… let me play with you for sometime, okay?” He reassured you. You were still dazed, the alcohol still in your system, and you were completely at his mercy. You did as he said and relaxed into his touches, having no other way out of this. Hoseok smirked and placed a kiss on your bare shoulders. “Yeah thats it baby… I'm going to take good care of you… gonna make you feel so good…” he said while placing wet kisses up your neck and down your shoulder. His fingers drove in and out of your pussy, loud squelches and wet sounds bounced off the office room walls, curling into your sweet spot and making you squirm and moan out in pleasure. His thumb found your neglected clit before pressing down on your hard nub, all while watching your reactions to his ministrations. “Feels good, doesn’t it? I can feel your tight little puss clenching around my fingers..” he said lowly. Your mind was hazy with pleasure and intoxication. Your hips moved involuntarily against his fingers. Hoseok chuckled, “Eager, aren’t we?” His other hand trailed up your body and cupped your tender tits, pulling down the fabric of your top. He tugged and played with your nipples, making you whine and whimper, pussy getting wetter and wetter. “So soft… fuck you’re addicting…” He pressed harder against your clit, drawing rough circles on the sensitive bud using his thumb, making you reach climax. Hoseok's fingers worked faster against your cunny, his pace becoming faster. Your breath got labored at his sudden increase in speed, hoseok breathing heavily behind you as well. “Fuckkkk… your pussy is so warm baby.. taking in my fingers so well..” He pulled out and slapped your cunt before drilling his fingers back in. You cried out as the pleasure got more intense, thighs trembling and body convulsing. Hoseok slapped your tits harshly, making you groan and whimper. He could feel your walls clench around him, signaling that you were close. He pushed his fingers further in you and curled into your walls at an inhumane pace. Your mouth dropped to an ‘o’ shape, and you could feel the knot in your stomach seeking release. “Fuckkkkk!!!” With a loud curse, you squirted all over hoseoks carpet, the gray color now a darker grey. He smirked and pulled his fingers out, gently laying you against the sofa. 

He got up and settled himself in between your legs. “get ready for more, princess…” 

A/N: day4 is out!!! Tysm for reading everyone <333 please excuse if this was rusty it was my first time writing dubcon 😭💔

Tags~ @cassies-cookies @minghaosimp @unlikelysublimekryptonite @mamnaimiefrankie @marcoswhore @theyadorevalerie @applejackthebest515 @un-knew @salemluvsmusic @ka0ila @atztrsr

If you want to be part of the taglist, comment below!! ^^

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: January 30, 2025.

→ NARRATED AUDIO:

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there’s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: plausible deniability king hoseok, subtext, dropping slight innuendo with that voice, gentle teasing, double meaning, sexual tension

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.6k

→ A/N: So. Listen. I was out there, freezing my ass off at the bus stop, cursing my life choices because why am I even going to the gym at ungodly hours??? And then—THEN—the bus just had the audacity to drive right past me. Love that. Amazing. Naturally, I did what any rational person would do: opened my notes app and started writing instead of using those 45 minutes to, idk, reconsider my entire existence. And thus, Off-Labels was born. This drabble? It’s about the kind of man who is dangerous in the most insidious way—intelligent, competent, and hiding behind a veneer of plausible deniability like it’s a damn art form. You know he knows what he’s doing to you. You know he’s aware of the effect he has. But can you prove it? No. Because he’s just so nice. So helpful. So unintentionally devastating to your nervous system. It’s honestly sick and twisted and exactly my type. Am I a menace? Absolutely. First installment in what might become a series because apparently I can't stop writing about competent men in medical settings using anatomical terms as foreplay. Will I be taking criticism? Absolutely not. ❤️‍🩹🩺

→ MINI SERIES: NEXT

PLAYLIST

You don’t believe in stories like in books.

Sure, you like to read them—disappear into them, let them pull you under like a riptide until you forget about deadlines and midterms and the existential dread of being a twenty-something who still doesn’t know what they’re doing.

But that’s all they are.

Stories.

Fantasies about tragic, fated loves and brooding billionaires and dangerous men with wings. You like them because they’re not real. Because it’s fun to pretend, for a little while, that you’re the kind of girl who’s got a winged fae warrior at her feet. Or a CEO husband who calls her darling in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows. Or—God forbid—her hot math teacher, who lets her stay after class for extra lessons.

Or your brother’s best friend’s secret hookup.

Not that you’re thinking about that one.

Not that it would even be your case.

You shift on the couch, burying yourself deeper into the cocoon of your brother’s old hoodie. It’s massive on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands, the faded fabric smelling like dust and detergent.

Perfect. The ideal uniform for an evening of doing absolutely nothing.

Your e-reader is dead, so you’ve resorted to flipping through some random paperback you found wedged under the coffee table, something with an aggressively shirtless man on the cover. You’re only half-paying attention, your eyes skimming over the words without really absorbing them.

Caleb should be home soon. Probably. He has class—or he says he has class, but you’re not entirely convinced. He’s in that phase of university where it’s mostly networking and group projects and going out more than actually studying.

Not that you care. He does his thing, you do yours.

A sharp knock at the door pulls you out of your haze.

You ignore it. Caleb has keys. If he forgot them, that’s his problem.

The knock comes again. Then the doorbell rings.

You groan, untangling yourself from the blanket and shuffling toward the door with all the grace of a sleep-deprived goblin. Your hair is a mess, your socks don’t match, and you’re fairly certain you have crumbs on your face from earlier. Good. Whoever’s on the other side can suffer.

Except—

It’s not Caleb.

It’s Hoseok.

Oh.

You freeze, hand still gripping the doorknob, brain buffering at the sight of him standing there, all easy confidence and warm eyes and—why does he always look so put together? It’s unfair. He’s in jeans and a hoodie, nothing special, but it fits him just right, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he just ran a hand through it, and—

Stop.

You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to act like a normal human person.

“Uh,” you say, which is a stellar start.

Hoseok smiles. “Hey.”

He has the kind of voice that makes people listen, rich and smooth, the kind that carries even when he’s speaking softly. Which he is now, like he knows you spook easily.

“Caleb’s not here,” you blurt out.

He tilts his head, amused. “Yeah, I figured.”

Right. Obviously. Because if Caleb were here, he’d be the one answering the door.

You scramble for something else to say, but your brain is blank, completely derailed by the fact that he’s here. In your doorway. Looking at you. And you must look insane—your hair sticking up in weird directions, drowning in a hoodie that is definitely not yours.

And he’s still smiling. Patient. Like he has all the time in the world.

You clear your throat, gripping the edge of the door. “Um. Did you—need something?”

Hoseok shifts, rocking back on his heels. “I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, see if Caleb was around.” A pause. “And you, too.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot.

You, too.

You, too.

You swallow. “Oh. Right. Cool. That’s—cool.”

His smile twitches, like he’s holding back a laugh.

You want to throw yourself into traffic.

“Mind if I come in?” he asks, ever-polite, ever-easygoing.

You should say no. Caleb’s not here, and even though Hoseok is Caleb’s best friend—and a genuinely nice person, thoughtful and reliable and the kind of guy who remembers your favorite coffee order—something about being alone with him makes your stomach twist.

But saying no would be weird.

So you step back. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

He steps inside, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Or maybe you’re just too aware of him—his presence, the faint scent of clean laundry and something warmer, something mellow. He’s always been like this, always drawn your attention whether you wanted him to or not.

You watch as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair like he’s been here a hundred times before. And he has, technically, but not like this. Not without Caleb.

Hoseok glances at the book on the coffee table. “Good?”

You stare at it, momentarily forgetting what book it even is. “Uh. Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the cover. His smile turns amused.

Heat floods your face.

"Interesting choice.”

You freeze. A slow, creeping horror slithers up your spine. Because you didn’t even look at the book before picking it up—you just grabbed whatever you had lying around, assuming it was something boring, something safe—

And now Hoseok is holding a novel titled My Professor’s Secret Temptation.

Oh.

Oh, you actually might be sick.

You scramble for something—anything—to say, but the words wedge themselves somewhere between your throat and your rapidly spiraling embarrassment.

Hoseok flips the book over, scanning the back cover with a curious hum. ��Didn’t take you for the forbidden romance type.”

You want the ground to open up. You want to disintegrate.

“I—I didn’t even read it!” you blurt out, a little too fast, a little too desperate. “I wasn’t paying attention, I just grabbed something random, and—and it’s not—”

Hoseok glances at you, amused but not in a mean way, just…interested? "Oh, yeah?”

You nod. Aggressively. “Yes.”

His mouth presses into something thoughtful, like he believes you, but there’s still a flicker of amusement in his expression, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with this new information.

“Huh.” He flips through a few pages idly, head tilting. “He’s pretty bold, huh?”

Your stomach drops. “Who?”

“The professor.”

Your soul leaves your body.

You stare at him, mouth opening and closing, incapable of forming a coherent thought.

Hoseok just nods, easy, unbothered. “Some of these lines are intense,” he muses, flipping another page. “Do real professors talk like this?”

You are going to die. Right here. On the floor.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”

He hums again, like he’s genuinely considering it, then—just as casually as everything else—he looks up and says, “You think he’s hot?”

Your heart stops.

Not in a teasing way. Not in a mean way. Just…like it’s a normal question. Like this is just an easy, natural conversation between two people who absolutely do not need to be having this conversation.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk, not a knowing smile—just quiet amusement, like this whole situation is genuinely kind of funny, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal at all.

“Relax,” he says, closing the book with a soft thump. “I won’t tell Caleb.”

It’s so casual. So reassuring.

Like he really, really isn’t trying to mess with you.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Hoseok sets the book down with deliberate care, spine aligned parallel to the edge of the coffee table like he’s arranging museum artifacts. Your traitorous eyes track the flex of tendons in his wrist—medical resident hands, steady and precise, the kind that’ve probably held beating hearts in ORs. You bite the inside of your cheek until copper blooms.

He glances at the sofa.

You glance at the sofa.

Three cushions. Two throw pillows. Seventy-two inches of fabric that suddenly feels like the Grand Canyon between acceptable and catastrophic.

“Mind if I…?” He gestures to the spot beside your abandoned blanket nest, already moving before you nod.

The springs creak faintly as he sinks into the middle cushion, thighs spreading in that effortless way men do—knees wide, elbows propped, phone balanced on his lap. You sit next to him—two cushions away—and watch his thumb scroll through messages, the screen’s blue light catching the silver ring he always wears on his index finger. Surgical steel, he’d told you once when you’d asked. Sterile. Practical.

Practical.

Practical like the way his left knee now brushes the edge of your blanket. Practical like the faint cedar-and-disinfectant scent of his cologne. Practical like the half-inch of skin exposed when his hoodie rides up as he stretches his arms behind his head.

Don’t look.

You look.

Stop looking.

He shifts, a subtle roll of his hips that has no business being this distracting. The movement pulls the denim taut across his thighs, and you try—really, genuinely try—to keep your eyes anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The stack of medical textbooks by the TV. Anything but the way his thumb now absently traces the inner seam of his jeans.

“Told Caleb I’d wait,” he says, tilting his head toward you. The motion makes his throat work—Adam’s apple bobbing, chin catching gold in the lamplight. “Movie night. You’re welcome to join, if you want.”

Your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with felt. “I—I have… readings.”

“Readings.” His mouth shapes the word like it’s fascinating.

“For… neuroanatomy.” You gesture vaguely toward your backpack slumped by the TV stand, half-buried under a sweatshirt you’ve been using as a pillow. “Midterm next week.”

He hums, low and considering. “Limbic system?”

“Hippocampus. Amygdala. All the… emotional bits.”

“Ah.” His smile softens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “The parts that make you want to throw textbooks at walls.”

You blink. “You… remember?”

“Your first-year meltdown over the cranial nerves? Yeah.” He chuckles, warm and rasping. “You called them ‘twelve little traitors’ and threatened to switch to art history.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You’d forgotten he’d been there that night—Caleb dragging him along for a pizza run, finding you knee-deep in flashcards and tears. Hoseok had quietly made tea while Caleb joked about selling your cadaver lab notes on eBay.

“Still think about it sometimes,” you mutter, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Art history sounds peaceful. No one dies in art history.”

“No,” he agrees. “But you’d miss this.”

“Miss what? The sleep deprivation? The existential dread?”

“The way your nose scrunches when you’re trying to memorize Brodmann areas.”

Your hands freeze.

He’s looking at you now—not the performative eye contact of someone making conversation, but the kind that pins you in place. Clinical. Observant. Like he’s cataloging your reaction.

“I don’t… scrunch,” you say weakly.

“You do.” His knee nudges the blanket again. Accidentally. Probably. “It’s cute.”

The air conditioner kicks on. You count the vents in the ceiling. Eight. Eight is a safe number. Eight is not the number of times you’ve imagined him saying that word in different contexts.

Cute.

Cute.

Cute.

Your lungs forget how to oxygenate.

Hoseok’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then sighs. “Caleb’s running late. Some study group thing.”

“Oh.”

“You hungry?”

“What?”

He’s already standing, rolling his shoulders in a stretch that pulls his hoodie taut across his chest. “I’ll make ramyeon. You like the kimchi kind, right?”

You stare.

He’s in your kitchen now, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times. Which he has—game nights, birthday parties, that one time Caleb got food poisoning and Hoseok stayed over to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit.

But this is different.

This is him pulling two bowls from the shelf you can’t reach without a step stool. This is him filling the kettle with exactly 500ml of water because he knows your stove runs hot. This is him glancing over his shoulder to ask, “Soft or firm noodles?” like it’s a question that matters.

“Soft,” you croak.

He nods, turning back to the counter. You watch his hands—capable, unhurried—tearing seasoning packets with his teeth. The steam fogs his glasses when he leans over the pot, and he pushes them up into his hair, revealing the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

Bike accident, he’d said when you’d asked. Twelve years old. Thought he could jump the curb like X-Games.

You’d dreamed about that scar for weeks afterward.

“Here.” He sets the bowl in front of you, chopsticks balanced across the rim. “Careful, it’s hot.”

You murmur thanks, staring at the swirling red broth. He sits closer this time—one cushion away instead of two. His knee brushes yours when he leans forward to blow on his noodles.

Accident, you tell yourself. Always accidents.

The TV murmurs in the background, some nature documentary about deep-sea creatures. Hoseok asks about your classes, and you answer in staccato sentences, hyper-aware of the way his sleeve brushes your arm when he reaches for the water glass.

“—and Dr. Park’s lectures are killing me,” you hear yourself say, chopsticks hovering over uneaten noodles. “She goes so fast, and the diagrams…”

“Want me to quiz you?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye—the same one he gets when Caleb challenges him to Mario Kart. “I handled multiple neuro cases last year. Could walk you through the basal ganglia.”

“You’re… busy.”

“Not really.” He sets his bowl aside, rolling up his sleeves. Your pulse thrums at the reveal of his forearms—dusting of dark hair, veins mapping paths you shouldn’t be tracing. “C’mon. Hit me with your worst.”

It’s a mistake.

You know it’s a mistake even as you fetch your notes, even as he pats the space beside him. Even as his shoulder presses against yours, radiating heat through three layers of fabric.

“Okay.” He scans your color-coded flashcards. “First question. What structure connects the hippocampus to the mammillary bodies?”

“F-fornix,” you stammer.

“Good.” His finger taps the next card. “Main neurotransmitter in the substantia nigra?”

“Dopamine.”

“And loss of dopamine here causes…”

“Parkinson’s.”

“Nice.” He shifts, knee pressing into yours. “Now point to your amygdala.”

You freeze. “What?”

“On your head. Show me where it is.”

“I—it’s—it’s medial temporal lobe, so…” You hover a hand near your right temple, acutely aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “Here? Ish?”

His chuckle vibrates through the couch. “Ish.”

“Shut up, I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

You glare at him. He grins back, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and something in your chest cracks open.

“Medial,” he says softly, reaching over to adjust your hand. His fingers graze your wrist—brief, clinical, devastating. “Deeper. Protected.”

You stop breathing.

The documentary narrator drones on about bioluminescent jellyfish. Hoseok’s thumb brushes your pulse point.

Accident.

Always accidents.

Then his phone rings.

You jerk back like you’ve been shocked. Hoseok answers with a calm, “Yeah?” while you stare at your knees, pretending your entire nervous system isn’t short-circuiting.

“Caleb’s downstairs,” he says, standing. “Forgot his keys again.”

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

He pauses, head tilted. For a horrifying moment, you think he’ll call you out—on the shaking hands, the flushed cheeks, the way you’re clinging to a pillow like it’s a life raft.

But he just smiles. Gentle. Endless. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You collapse sideways onto the couch, pressing your face into the cushion that still holds the warmth of him. Somewhere in the hallway, the elevator dings. Laughter floats up from the parking lot.

Four years.

Four years of this.

Four years of almosts and maybes and don’t be stupid, he’s just being nice.

Your phone buzzes. A text from Caleb:

𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐?? 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚍. 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚣𝚣𝚊. 𝚆𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎?

You type no with trembling fingers.

The couch creaks as you curl into yourself, knees to chest, forehead pressed against the spot where his ring had left a faint indentation in the upholstery.

Deeper.

Protected.

Somewhere in your medial temporal lobe, dopamine fires for all the wrong reasons.

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[iveneverbeenhere]

Sexy/Romantic things BTS men do:

Genre: FLUFF‼️‼️‼️These bitches are WHIPPED, GN! Reader for the most part

CW: None really

A/N: I really just be on here huh. I had this idea awhile back , and I’ve finally gotten around to posting it. Hope yall enjoy ✌🏾

———————————————————————————

Yoongi & V: Stares at you intently

There lies a man absolutely entranced by you. He stares so hard that it could burn your skin. He’s examined you so closely that he could tell you every detail of yourself. How your brows furrow and your lips pout whenever you can’t find the word for something. Your lips curve into a smirk whenever you say your “s” . Your upper canines peak out mid sentence whenever you rant like a mad dog; meanwhile your hands make grand, sweeping gestures that make everything you say seem like a grand adventure. When you inevitably catch them in their unsubtle act, they continue staring. After all, they would never wanna look at anything else.

Jhope, Jin(?): Buys you things

Mr. Moneybags. He has money just for you to spend. A man who will want for nothing, but will serve the world to you with a gold leaf. Luxury restaurants with names neither of you can pronounce. Shoes painted crimson on the sole with ruby rings to match. Nothing is out of your reach with him.

Namjoon, Tae, Jungkook: holds your hand and rubs his thumb on your knuckles

Comfort exists solely within this man. Soft hands with only slight calluses that hold yours in a featherlight grip. His thumb rubs over your knuckles in small circles and figure eights. He’s hardly aware that he’s doing it. He’s ingrained it within himself to be your haven.

Namjoon, Jimin: Text you things that remind him of you

Frogs. Lilies. Marigolds. Daisies. Bright red mushrooms with dots. Poems addressed to a long-ago lover. TikToks with love confessions playing in the background. Slow ballads soothe you with their lavender voice and adoring lyrics. Events for things you’re interested in. A photo of you asleep on his chest he took of you last night. A stranger’s poodle called Pepper. Knitted cardigans covered with embroidered stars and moons. The moon standing next to the sun during a pink sunset. A small Polaroid of you smiling that he found lying in the back of his studio. These things fill his camera roll until he inevitably sends them to you. He needs you to know that he always thinks of you.

Namjoon, Yoongi: Send you paragraphs and poems

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”

“Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life”

Sentences strung together by loose words and ends in the late nights when he has you on his mind. A painful yearning that existed before you that you dissipated with your being; though it comes back stronger when you leave. Love poems written by him or long dead writers to help him release his emotions. His devotion towards you needs to be known by you in simple language and consciousness. If not, he’ll ruin himself.

Namjoon, Jungkook, Tae: Always has his body facing you

A physical sign of devotion. “My attention is always on you” Head slightly tilted to better catch a glimpse at you, shoulders and back slightly slouched in a relaxed position, his feet facing towards you; his eyes half lidded as his pupils bounce from your eyes, lips, and nose. He tries his best to keep his hands steady, lest he grabs you. He could be in a room full of people and there would be no mistake as to who he’s looking at.

Yoongi, Namjoon, Tae: Asks if he can kiss you

Consent king.

“Can I kiss you?”

Simple. Straightforward. Nerve wrecking. A small question that holds so much vulnerability and weight. Displaying his need to communicate his scorching love through his flesh, but wishing death on himself before he makes you uncomfortable.

“Only if you want to.”

A sign that he’ll put any desire back if you don’t reciprocate it. You’re the only one controlling his world; he won’t forsake you.

Jin, Yoongi, Jungkook, Tae: Answers your texts right away

He’s never been a bad texter, but there is no wait when it comes to you. The thought of making you wait for anything has never entered his mind. He knows how doubt and anxiety can cripple the mind. He does his best to ensure you don’t have to face that with him. Texts sent a minute ago will get a reply in seconds. He’ll never keep you waiting.

Tae, Jungkook: lays his head on top of yours

His warm embrace. Long arms wrapped around you tightly as if he lets go for a moment you’ll vanish like a sweet dream. Your sweet scent mixed in with his cologne, cigarette smoke, and natural musk. Your face is in the crook of his neck; your nose and long lashes tickle his nape. He feels your hot breath warm his skin, but hates how his face feels detached. His eyes can’t bear to look at the wall ahead of him when he has you. He lays his head down into your hair, smelling the crown of your hair; he closes his eyes and snuggles further into your locs. If he could, he’d crawl into your skin and never leave its warm, suffocating embrace; however, laying his head on yours will do for now.

Yoongi, Namjoon, jhope: gives you stuff

Gift-giving couldn’t be considered his first love language; although, he can’t help but attend to you. Old books covered with dog tags, highlighted passages, and small handwritten notes. A beaded bracelet he made on live. A whale-shaped cutting board that you can’t bring yourself to use out of fear of damaging it. All things he gives to show how much he thinks of you.

[namfinessed]

go around - j.hs.

genre: angst, fluff (childhoodcrush! brother'sbestfriend!) (8.2k)

summary: to everyone else, he was the sun but to you, he was always the moon, the light you grabbed onto when you could see nothing.

note: grief is something very close to my heart, i've always struggled with it but i'm slowly starting to learn to live with it, i hope everyone who's experienced loss feels like some kind of relief through this, thank you for reading <3

masterlist

-

hoseok was sixteen years old when it happened.

you were thirteen.

and he had thought he was too cool for you then.

you were sitting on the other side of the mary-go-round to him, it was the last but one day of the summer camp you were part of, and you looked at him as if he hung the moon in the sky.

and hoseok felt as high as the moon that night.

but he was also sick to his stomach.

"i like you," you didn't look at him as you said it but hoseok could feel that you meant it, that it took a lot for you to get on that mary-go-round with him, spin with him, build the moon in his eyes and then say the words that he believed were stuck in your throat since when you first saw him.

he knew that your brother wouldn't like that you were saying this.

but he knew, even as a kid, that this was the most honest thing anyone's ever told him.

but he was so cool and so close to your brother, who would kill him if hoseok said anything back.

so, he didn't say anything back.

hoseok pursed his lips and looked away. he swears that, to this day, the tears shining in his eyes were nerves and not the frustration that came with not being able to hold you to the moon too.

the silent rejection didn't yet hit your soft eyes and bare heart.

you kept looking at him, hands gripping the handles so tight that your knuckles changed shades between white and pink and your cheeks puffed, excited and nervous breaths still left your lips.

and hoseok didn't want to be cool for a second there, he didn't want to care about your brother at all, maybe he would just let you take him for a bit, just a bit.

but in your thin eyebrows, he saw your brother.

in your veiny hands, he saw your brother.

in your coily, curly hair, he saw your brother.

so, he got off the mary-go-round, he walked away quickly, not pausing to look at you and he sniffed his tears away, he hugged his jacket closer to his body.

tomorrow, he would be fine.

tomorrow, no one would look at him like he was the moon and he would be okay with it.

but hoseok turned around.

the biggest mistake of his life.

the moon you thought him to be, cast a glow on the tears gathering on your chin and his heart wrenched.

he would fix this, he told himself, he would fix all of this.

but the next day, your brother, his best friend, died.

and you never spoke a word to hoseok again.

-

everything was vibrant when hoseok stepped into your home.

the unkept gardens were now blooming with flowers.

the closed windows were now open and giving a glimpse into the light inside the house.

the home was back to being a home.

he’s seen the transformation take place with his own two eyes over the years and he could confidently conclude that the ten years that cloaked your family and home in darkness were finally nowhere to be found.

and hoseok felt both delight and unease at the development.

“oh honey, you came,” there were few people hoseok could recognize with how they breathed, and your mom, his second mom basically, was one of them.

he didn’t even get to greet her before he was wrapped in a hug that surrounded him with the scent of cinnamon, musky perfume, and somehow, still his best friend.

“of course i did, ma” he kissed the top of her head, his arms not letting her go even if he knew the time for an appropriate hug was up, and she knew it too but she stayed as long as hoseok held her.

and when he let her go, he had to look away from the tears touching her eyelashes.

he probably brought back memories of his friend, maybe he still smelt like his friend too, he doesn’t know but he’s glad if he does.

his best friend’s family was unlike hoseok’s, his own family was distant and cold, and when he became an adult, he cut off all ties with them, he simply couldn’t accept them as family and your mom never let him feel as if he didn’t have one.

“the place is really packed,” hoseok whistled, looking at all the new faces and your mom nodded, “she invited a lot of her friends, i don’t know them but it’s okay, they’re having a good time, you’re here, so it’s all good,” hoseok stiffened at your mention.

you didn’t see him once in the last ten years.

slammed the door on his face.

ignored him even when your mom screamed after you.

locked yourself in your room and never got out if it meant seeing him.

and hoseok learned to accept it, he wouldn’t hang out with him either, especially after what happened.

but it was your birthday and he was invited, by your mom or you, he has no idea but hoseok steels himself to see you at some point in the night.

then, he walks around, introduces himself, ignores the pity that people eye’s throw at him, ignores the sympathetic touches on his arm, ignores the pats on the back and the ‘he must’ve been wonderful to have as a friend’ and he nods because he can’t say that yes, his best friend was an incredible friend until he fucking died.

and suddenly, hoseok wants to punch his best friend, for leaving him with this room of people who didn’t know him but somehow had all the sympathy in the world to shove in his face, for leaving him with no option but to mourn and miss him.

but hoseok was never a good mourner, he was good at going about life normally, good at laughing, good at ignoring his feelings, hoseok wasn’t good at gathering tears in his eyes when he thought of his dead best friend.

after a while, hoseok excuses himself to the bathroom and finds himself in his friend’s room, which remains frozen in time. every poster he hung up, though peeling at the edges on the wall, still stayed, every photo he stuck on top of his bedpost was yellow and faded but again, they stayed.

he doesn’t know how long he stares at their photo, the one they took in the summer camp where hoseok’s head is too small and his arms too thin and wrapped around his friend.

when he ran his fingers over the photo, he didn’t feel anything, he was grazing over hazy memories that he was desperately trying to remember as he got older but they were all slipping away or holding on too tightly at times.

“what the fuck are you doing in jay’s room?”

and he snatches his fingers away from the photo.

as he turns around, he swears he feels his heartbeat in his feet, and no amount of time could ever prepare him to face you.

you’re standing at the door with your arms crossed so defensively over your chest that he’s scared to take a single step forward but something about you, as a sixteen-year-old back then and now, a twenty-six-year-old, always takes his breath away.

and you look so much like jay, from the eyes to the hair to the hands, that he has to look away to breathe again.

“hey,” is all that comes out of hoseok’s mouth and he knows he deserves it when you roll your eyes at him.

“you’re not going to slam the door on me?” he asks and to his surprise, you shake your head, “not this time, my mom might just kill me,” you say while entering through the door and hoseok awkwardly steps around the room to reach where you sit on the bed.

he’s not sure how to feel about your mom having to force you to meet him.

and he’s not sure if he will ever be ready to see you again.

maybe you should’ve slammed the door one last time.

“happy birthday, big numbers now,” hoseok sits five feet away from you on the same bed and he watches your face soften the slightest, “thank you, and yeah, twenty-four doesn’t feel real,” you weakly laugh, falling on the bed and letting your feet dangle off the edge.

“your friends seem fun,” he stayed alert on the edge of the bed, and you nodded half-heartedly, “i guess so, did you meet them?”

“yeah, i said hi and stuff,” hoseok played with his fingers as you sat up again, “they brought up jay?”

“um yeah, they seemed to be very...empathetic about it,” he said, he didn’t know how else to say that your friends' reactions almost made him want to leave the party.

“yeah, they don’t know how to react to dead brothers or best friends, they’re not too bad though,” you laugh again and hoseok just nods, looking away.

for a moment, there’s only silence.

there’s only your breath and his.

there’s only your heartbeat and his.

and hoseok had missed this, he had missed you.

“can you believe it’s been ten years?” he asks because he can’t, he still feels as if it was yesterday that he got the phone call from you.

“i can,” you whisper, “time has been slow for me, so i can,” you’re the one looking away this time and hoseok catches your eyes roaming on the photos stuck above jay’s bed.

“do you want to go downstairs?” you get up from the bed and meet his eyes properly for the first time since you entered the room and he can do nothing but nod.

just before you step out the door, hoseok grabs your hand, immediately dropping it as you stop, “a-are you okay?” he didn’t want to ask you the question that he knows everyone else did but he also wouldn’t sleep that night without asking.

but when you laugh and disappear downstairs, hoseok ends up not sleeping anyway.

-

“thank you so much for coming by,” hoseok shook his head at your mother with the broadest smile and sweat coating his forehead, “of course ma, you can call me whenever you need help,” he pressed a kiss on the top of her head as he passed her and she pushed her face into his arm.

your mom owned a local restaurant and usually, handled everything from deliveries to cooking to serving and hoseok had chastised her multiple times about it.

even now, looking at the full restaurant, hoseok knew he couldn’t leave her to it.

so, after pushing her into the kitchen, he manned the counter for a while and made light conversation with whoever came by.

it felt strange, after so many years, being back around jay’s family, being back in this restaurant where he spent many days and nights.

he shook his head, refusing to let the memories creep back in.

he was used to this, this was just a routine to him, he always helped out, and he knew jay would do it if he was here.

“she loves you a lot already, you don’t have to do all this,” your voice isn’t something he’s used to though, not here, and hoseok’s palms start sweating immediately.

fuck.

he didn’t even put on a good outfit today.

or even perfume, now that he thinks of it.

and he curses himself when you come into view.

“i do this because i love her a lot,” he says with a smile and you roll your eyes, “yeah i know, it’s annoying,” and he frowns, “why?”

but you just wave a hand at him and go into the kitchen.

and hoseok’s left with ten people waving their bills and money at him, so he plasters a smile on his face and continues working.

after some time passes, you come back out from the kitchen with a scowl on your face and hoseok knows this because he hasn’t stopped his eyes from flickering between the kitchen door and the counter in front of him.

“i’ve got it from here, move,” you bark at him as you reach him and hoseok’s frown deepens at you, “it’s only a couple of people, i’ll finish it, don’t worry,” he reassures you but it only seems to irritate you.

“this isn’t your job, hoseok, just move over,” the glare on your face makes hoseok throw his hands up in the air and step away from the counter.

and he goes to the kitchen, he hugs your mom goodbye and he doesn’t bother with saying anything to you while he leaves because he’s sure you will only curse at him. he’s too exhausted today.

but imagine his surprise when the clock strikes midnight, you are at his door with a few soju bottles, snacks, and a sheepish smile on your face.

what the fuck were you doing at his home?

“um, hi?” he adjusts his t-shirt as he greets you, suddenly too aware of his messy hair and pajama pants as his heart once again beats away from his body.

“can i come in?” you ask sheepishly, and he immediately moves away. as you look around his apartment, hoseok still finds it hard to believe that you’re here.

even as you set up the table with soju glasses and food, he can only follow you in a daze.

“come, sit,” you say as if it wasn’t his home, his table, and his chairs but hoseok obliges and sits down.

a few minutes pass with both of you just fidgeting, looking at and away from each other, scratching your necks, and rubbing your fingers together.

until you finally grab the soju bottle and inch toward him.

you take a deep breath in and hoseok lets one out, “i shouldn’t have been so rude at the store, it’s just,” you speak as you pour soju into a shot glass for him and he sits up in his seat, “jay used to be there all the time.” you swallow, moving the bottle away from him and pouring one for yourself too.

“i was there all the time too, you know that,” hoseok says gently, as if to a child and you nod, “yeah, but it was always you and him, not just you.”

always you and him.

not just you.

and the memories that hoseok tried so hard to keep in his head, started creeping their way onto his sneakers and jeans and slipping away like sand.

the nights they snuck in to steal the leftovers.

the days he spent munching down on snacks that your mom generously gave him and jay.

the evenings where they both fanned each other with rolled-up magazines.

the days he spent admiring you at the counter.

but he couldn’t remember the dates, he couldn’t remember the details like what he was wearing that evening when jay hit him with a wooden fan, what was jay wearing when he got dumped by his girlfriend and cried to hoseok, what would jay think of this moment right now, you in front of him with a couple of soju bottles that were bound to be empty soon?

he shifted in his seat, “i won’t come over anymore, i didn’t know you felt like this,” and you purse your lips, “don’t do that, hoseok.”

“do what?” his eyebrows draw closer and you put down your glass to stare at him straight, “be so understanding and nice, just tell me to fuck off and deal with my shit instead of taking it out on you, hate me a little bit because this isn’t fair to you and you know that too.”

hoseok is stunned to silence for a second.

and he has a feeling that these words weren’t just some sudden outburst, you never spoke without letting your thoughts settle so he knows you’ve felt this for a while.

when he catches your wobbling lip and the way you shove food into your mouth to stop the movement, he knows he’s right and his heart softens even more.

“i’m not going to hate you for missing your brother, y/n.” is all he says before he slides your glass towards him and pours you a shot too.

and for a second, you just eye the glass and then look at him with tears so heavy in your eyes that hoseok is surprised they haven’t rolled down your cheeks.

“i think you’re the only one who doesn’t,” you suck in a breath and take the shot, you barely feel the liquid burn down your throat or the tears that finally release from your eyes.

when he raises his eyebrows at you, you shrug with a sniff and look away.

for the rest of the night, hoseok tries to forget that this was exactly how you looked on the mary-go-around ten years ago.

tears on your jaw.

flushed cheeks.

the same coily hair.

for the rest of the night, hoseok stops himself from falling in love again.

-

“again!” your mom threw her hands up in delight after winning one more game of ludo that hoseok had brought over.

you groaned and complained loudly to her, face held up by your elbow and hoseok watched with warm eyes as you and your mom argued about the win.

but he also felt acutely, the empty cushion next to him.

“you’re just a sore loser, learn a thing or two from hoseok,” your mom brought him back to the world, unscathed from his best friend’s haunting.

and hoseok nods proudly, dissolving into giggles when you scoff at him and your mom high-fives him.

“you’re letting her win,” you stare pointedly at him as your mom leaves to bring more snacks and hoseok shrugs happily, “guilty as charged,” and ducks with a laugh when a shower of peanut shells gets thrown in his direction.

“i knew it!” you screeched and he fell onto the floor with a belly full of joy, “mom, i told you, he was letting you win,” you stomped into the kitchen and hoseok heard more sounds of an argument from the kitchen, he rolled his eyes in endearment.

that night, you drop him in your car, and the entire ride, you’re laughing, he’s laughing, you’re speaking nonsense, he’s speaking nonsense, you’re falling on the seat to cover your face and he’s pulling his hands over his eyes to cover his face.

and at his door, you look at him with a face so free of everything.

no lines of worry on your forehead.

no frown between your eyebrows.

no hesitance to smile.

just a hint of moonlight falling over the right side of your face and some of your hair.

and hoseok wonders if he looks the same, if he looks just as beautiful and calm.

but when you keep staring at him with those curious, those tender eyes that he feels you reserve just for him, as if he has the answer to everything, as if he was the answer to everything, hoseok’s heart races in panic and buried love.

both of you realize at the same time, that ten minutes had passed and you were about two inches closer than you were at the beginning of the ride.

he stumbles out of the car, you stutter a goodbye to him and he nods hastily, urging you to leave.

that night, once again, hoseok begs himself to stop falling in love.

-

you only called him once in the many years that he’s known you and it was to tell him that jay had died, it was a freak accident, no one could’ve done anything and hoseok had thought that it was all a dream but your voice, as always, rang true in his ears and he knew that his life, as it was, would change forever.

“hoseok, i-it’s jay, someone hit him with a bike, i don’t know what’s going on, they’re saying they can’t read his pulse, please just come here, p-please.”

your sobs had shaken him so badly that he stumbled out of his camp cabin in his pajamas and he held your mom’s hand the entire time they tried to resurrect jay in the emergency room but once jay flatlined, your mom crumbled in his arms and you ran out of the hospital, you refused to look at him after that night.

and he understands why, he should’ve been there for jay, he should’ve made sure that his best friend didn’t go out for a walk that night or he should’ve gone with jay and been the one to get hit instead.

but it was all over now, and all hoseok was left with was a heavy heart filled with enough guilt for all the years he would live.

so when hoseok’s phone rang in the middle of the night with your name flashing on his screen, his brain unearthed the entire tragedy, the entire night with its roots pulled out of him and he was gasping for breath as he answered.

could it be that something happened to your mom?

did something happen to you?

did something happen to him and everyone else knew but him?

“she’s not letting us call her mom but she said your name, can you come to pick her up?” and twenty minutes later, hoseok pulled up to the only nightclub in the neighborhood to pick you up.

he struggled to hold back a laugh as he saw you draped over your friend’s arms, blissfully drunk, giggling, and utterly exhausted. when he started walking over to you, all of your friends began groaning and complaining to him about you which only made it harder for him not to laugh until your entire weight was shifted onto him and hoseok closed his eyes when you buried your face in his neck, savoring the tender moment.

just like every other minute that he’s alone with you, hoseok can’t believe this minute either.

“i’ve got her from here,” he says, carefully shifting your body to make you more comfortable and you hum in your drunken state, pushing your cheeks further into his collarbones and hoseok tries not to freeze.

“you should join us next time!” your friends all chime in together, their enthusiasm and kind intentions bleed around them and touch hoseok’s heart, maybe he had been too quick to judge them and hoseok gives in, nodding unsurely and they all erupt in cheers which makes him smile.

you had good people around you.

and that made him the happiest person in the world.

as he waves goodbye to them, his hands hold your body closer to him when you start to slide off and all of them exchange looks which hoseok ignores.

he carefully puts you in the passenger seat and pulls off the sidewalk.

he turned up the air conditioner, feeling his body get warmer and warmer as the seconds passed and he forces himself to look at the road and not you.

“hoseok?” the red light glowed on your face when he looked towards you, “yeah, it’s me, just taking you back home,” he doesn’t stop his hands from moving your hair away from your face and caressing your temples with his fingers.

how many years have passed with him missing you?

how many years of loving you has he missed out on?

he doesn’t know how jay would feel about this, maybe he would gag at hoseok’s tender eyes at this moment, perhaps he would tease him but he knows jay wouldn’t hate it.

hoseok pulls back almost immediately as you start to shift, only to relax when your face melts into his fingers.

if it didn’t feel so wrong, hoseok would’ve sat the rest of the night just looking at you and letting the rest of the world pass by.

“don’t take me to mom’s,” you whine and he laughs at your scrunched-up face, “okay, where do you want to go?”

“your’s,” you mumble, and hoseok’s face goes red, it takes him a few minutes and several cars honking at him to come back to earth.

when hoseok carefully lays you on the side of his body and takes you to his bedroom, he bears the torture of your arms tightening around his neck and the torture of your lips accidentally brushing on his skin.

“you like me, right?” you whisper into hoseok’s ear as he covers you with blankets on his bed and he freezes.

when he doesn’t respond, your eyes flutter open, still soft and fuzzy from the alcohol and you ask again, “hoseok, you like me, yes?”

and he’s taken back to the you that asked him out on a mary-go-around, the you that gave him the most honest confession of love in his life, the you that looked at him as if he ripped your heart out.

he nods, “of course i do, we’re family.” and you frown at him.

then, you sit up on the bed and lean forward to hold his face in your hands, hoseok starts sweating under the thin t-shirt he wore, and your fingers touch his face in places that he’s sure didn’t exist before, and every nerve of his melts and burns.

“i’ve always wanted to ask you something,” he says, now that there was no distinction between his breaths and yours and you nod, urging him to go on, “i thought i was always the one who had something to say,” you giggle, falling on his shoulder and hoseok laughs with you.

“why did you start talking to me again? after all this time? it can’t just be because of your mother,” and your laughter vanishes from the air around him, your touch too lifts from his shoulder, and hoseok’s confusion and curiosity grow.

he knows he’s asked the wrong thing, and said the wrong thing, he always does, but why would this question make you so upset?

he just wanted to know why after so many years of ignoring his entire existence, you suddenly chose to come to his home, and suddenly back into his life.

but he also loves that you’re back in his life.

“you don’t have to tell me, go to s-“ he gets up from the bed but is stopped by a hand grabbing his wrist tightly and he sinks back down beside you.

“my reasons are selfish, hoseok,” your tears come back and hoseok is rushing to wipe them away before they ever leave your eyes which only makes them gather faster.

“i don’t care,” he shakes his head and he really doesn’t.

“you should.”

“but i don’t.”

use him, don’t use him, throw him away, or keep him, he’s okay with it all.

your eyes search in his face, any trace of a lie, any trace of dishonesty and you find none that urges you to say, “i need you.”

a strange rush of warmth and bashfulness washes over hoseok as your words run him over.

“it hurts so much and i can’t do this alone, i need you, i just want it to stop hurting,” and hoseok’s heart stops at your broken voice because he knows what’s hurting you and nothing in the world can fix that kind of pain, “i don’t know how to live anymore, every time i come home, i miss him in the space next to my mom, i miss him in the counter that you stand at now, i miss him everywhere and i can’t say this to anyone.”

hoseok barely feels your hands grabbing his as your sobs climb up your throat, “except you, hoseok. no one knows what i feel, it’s pathetic that i miss him still but so do you, i know you feel this too, right?”

and he knows, he knows exactly what it feels like and he also knows that this was building in you since over the past ten years, the same way it’s been building in him.

that sense of loss that never goes away.

that sense of waiting for the relief that comes with moving on, that never came.

that sense of having nowhere to go and cry it out because the rest of the world doesn’t see what it’s lost, only he can and only you can.

“i do,” he finally choked out and your cries grew louder, hoseok winced at the volume and tapped your arms to calm you down but he was barely calm himself.

years and years of his grief catch up to him, run him over, trample over him and his mind ignites with every single second he spent with jay, every single he spent missing jay and then ignoring his memory.

all of it grabs him by the throat and chokes him but he lets your head fall onto his shoulder, and keeps his own tears away from his eyes as your body breaks on him.

when you were kids, hoseok had held you when you were laughing, he had felt your joy go through him, spread onto him, he could feel your happiness as if it was his own.

when you laughed in the car with him, the sound jogged his memory on how to laugh, on how to feel happiness again, he felt it go in and out of him in waves that he couldn’t control.

it was a miracle to him that just by touching someone, you can feel what they feel.

but now, holding you when you were crying, feeling every tear on his own skin, the burden of it all sunk him deeper than he could pull out of but he held you, he wrapped a singular arm around you and buried his head in your hair.

if anyone was going to know that he cried about jay, it was you and if anyone was going to miss jay with you, it was him.

and that night, he let himself fall in love.

-

the next morning, hoseok woke up with swollen eyes but a happy heart, a less lonely heart, he got up from the couch and entered his bedroom where he spent several minutes just staring at your face and stopped himself from kissing your cheek.

he stepped out of the bedroom quietly, padding his feet as gently as he could on the floor, and started preparing pancakes, hot chocolate, and everything else he could remember as something you liked as a kid.

hoseok couldn’t keep the smile off his face the entire time he whisked the batter, stirred the hot chocolate, and put out the plates. every moment that passed reminded him of you in his bedroom, it made him feel fuzzy and warm and ticklish, as if the sun had come to sit on his shoulder.

finally, his life was falling into place.

he almost jumped in excitement when the sound of his bedroom door creaking echoed throughout his apartment. he peeked around the corner to see you dragging your feet with even more swollen eyes than his and he stifled a laugh.

“good morning, pretty,” hoseok sang and giggled when your groan came as a reply.

“what’s all this?” your eyes barely opened to see the spread of food in front of you and he shrugged, “just some breakfast for you, did you take the aspirin beside  the bed?”

you nodded and stood unsurely until hoseok got up and pushed you to sit down gently, “sit down, it’s all still hot, have it soon,” he kissed the top of your head and you stiffened under him.

hoseok quickly stepped away, laughing uncomfortably, and sat down as well.

for the next few minutes, he waited as you took in everything in front of you and his heart raced the entire time.

did he do too much?

was he moving too fast?

but he had already wasted so much time over the years, he wasn’t going to make the same mistak-

“why?”

hoseok frowns at your question, leaning forward to see if he heard it right but when he looks up, he sees your tear-filled eyes and he knows he’s fucked up somehow.

“w-what happened?”

“why are you doing all this?” he doesn’t know if you’re asking him or accusing him of something.

“what do you mean?”

“why.are.you.doing.this?” you punctuate every word with quick breaths and hoseok knows he’s pissed you off.

why or how he’s done that, he has no idea.

“i thought some food would be nice in the morning, especially with your hangover,” he stumbles over his words because he didn’t think he would ever have to explain why he made breakfast for someone.

you stay quiet.

he says your name.

once.

twice.

thrice.

then, you get up from the chair and look at him with both the most anger he’s felt in someone and also, the most pain, “i can’t do this,” you mumble and in the next minute, hoseok’s door is left wide open and your seat is empty.

he watches the food go cold and tries to hold himself together as he clears everything up, all the warmth he felt in the morning disappeared down the same drain that his food went.

and all he could was watch and let it happen.

-

weeks passed and hoseok dipped in and out of the restaurant, trying to see you, catch a word with you, and try to fix things, but whenever you saw him, you ran away.

whenever he waved to you, you would hesitantly lift your hand and then look away, engaging yourself with someone else.

whenever he called you, you wouldn’t pick up.

his messages remained on delivered.

and hoseok’s heart broke little by little as he saw you intentionally pull away from him.

he couldn’t understand why, you had such a beautiful night together, you had poured your heart out to him and he had done the same to you but somehow, it was as if that night didn’t exist to you.

maybe he read it all wrong?

maybe you just needed him as someone who felt the same as you, who experienced the same grief and here he was, his heart growing wings and the love he buried blooming again.

but you had loved him ten years ago.

and that confession was still fresh in his mind, still the most honest thing he’s heard in his life.

maybe he was stupid for ever thinking that you still felt the same love from ten years ago?

but as his mind replayed your words, ‘i need you’, it didn’t make sense to him that suddenly, you wanted to push him away.

“take these when you go home,” your mom packed him multiple boxes of side dishes and rice and everything else she could cook throughout the day and he nodded, thanking her with a kiss on her head, and headed for the door.

until he heard your voice.

his entire body froze at your presence.

but he’s had enough.

hoseok turned around and started walking with loud steps towards the kitchen, and when you came into his vision, he didn’t feel the warmth or the love or any of the good stuff.

he only felt the hurt that blinded him that morning, he only felt the pain spearing his heart as he threw everything away, he only felt the loneliness that played with him until the late hours of the night.

hoseok knows he’s not the best person but he also knows that he didn’t deserve that.

“you asked me that day, why i was doing all that. let me ask you now, why are you doing this?” he glared right at you, and in the corner of his eyes, he saw your mom glance between the two of you and then duck out of the kitchen.

he will apologize to her later.

in front of him, you tilted your head at him and tried to appear tough by crossing your arms across your chest and staring back at him.

but hoseok is past this, he’s tired of being lonely but he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to feel lonely when he’s in love.

“look, i don’t know what’s going through your mind and i never will until you tell me, but you can’t do this to me, you can’t push and pull whenever you like, i know you’re hurting somehow but i am too, so figure yourself out and then come to me because i know that i’m not alone in this feeling, i know you feel it too.”

with that, hoseok marched out of the kitchen, hugged your mom on the way out and went back to his empty home, where he might’ve felt lonely but he at least didn’t feel miserable.

you will hopefully find your way back to him.

but if you don’t, hoseok’s just going to have to find a way to be okay with that too.

-

days passed again and hoseok tried to move on.

you didn’t call or message or try to reach him and he took it as a rejection, which was still okay, he would still be okay.

he busied himself with his work, with your mom’s restaurant, and tried to learn how to cook, tried to liven up his apartment with knick-knacks, he took up arts and crafts.

hoseok did everything he could think of and for the most part, he really was okay.

but he also really wasn’t that okay.

he drifted through the days, pushed you out of his mind, and drank a bit from time to time to forget you only to hover his finger over your contact every night, he still kept the blanket you slept on in the corner of his room and not in the laundry basket where it should’ve been.

but still.

he was okay, he told himself, he would go back to some version of himself which was okay.

hoseok walked to the restaurant with his head down, earphones in and counted his steps because he had nothing else to do.

when he reached, he still didn’t look up, he continued to his counter where he removed his hoodie and put on an apron, humming to himself and cleaning the counter up.

until your mom’s shoes came into his view and by the time he looked up, she had grabbed his arm and started shaking him which made him frown.

he looked up to see her tear-streaked face and echoes of her sobs that traveled from her hands to him and the desperate shouts he could only see with his earphones in.

his hands shakily reached up to remove his earphones and then he heard it.

the heart-stopping cries and yells.

hoseok’s eyes went round with panic and he immediately grabbed her body as she fell onto him, he tried his best to soothe her but seeing her tears, was already choking him up.

he tried to keep his panic at bay as he patted her back and tried to make sense of her babbling.

what if something happened to you?

he couldn’t deal with that kind of grief; he wouldn’t survive it.

“she hasn’t picked up a single call,” something did happen to you, and hoseok bit the inside of his cheek to hold back his sobs.

“ma,” he grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look into his eyes, “please breathe with me,” she nodded, timing her inhalation and exhalation with him and when her sniffles subsided, she told him, “she ran away this morning, i’ve looked everywhere and i’ve called everyone, no one has seen her, i don’t know what to do and the police aren’t doing anything until she’s gone for a day but you know her, she never does this.”

she rambled endlessly to him and hoseok held onto her the entire time, feeling only a bit hurt that she never called him but that wasn’t a concern right now.

at the end of it, he offered her a glass of water, removed his apron, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before heading straight for the door.

“hoseok,” he stopped at her voice, “i only didn’t call you because i know you two aren’t doing well right now, otherwise you know you’re like my son.” and hoseok melted, he smiled and took her hands as he said, “don’t worry about that ma, we’re family, you keep calling people and i’ll try to find her.”

he didn’t know what to feel once he stepped out of the restaurant.

in the restaurant, he could focus on reassuring and comforting your mom, he could place all his energy into caring for her but now, he was alone and he didn’t know what to feel.

hoseok got into his car only to realize he didn’t know where to fucking begin, you could be anywhere by this time, even a different city but he has a feeling that you were not too far.

but he didn’t know that with certainty either.

every thought he had only put him in a chokehold as his mind reeled with every worst-case scenario.

nevertheless, he put his fears aside and started the car.

the next few hours, he drove in every street, looked in every club and café, kept checking his phone some one million times, and stopped at the entrance of his summer camp where his life seemed to begin and end.

jay would’ve had a panic attack if he was here with hoseok right now, hoseok smiled as he thought of how worried jay would’ve been and how he probably would’ve cursed you out after finding you, how he would’ve hugged you and hoseok in relief, how he would never let it happen again.

jay would’ve been so many things if he was still there with hoseok and that killed hoseok every day.

he kept staring at the entrance where he ran out of the day jay died, where he held back his tears and shook his head and told himself that it was all a lie, that his best friend was still alive.

hoseok threw his head back on his car seat.

grief was so unfair; it took away so much and left him with so little.

if it was so hard for him, he couldn’t imagine how much more angry or sad grief would’ve made you over the years.

and just as he blinks back tears, his phone rings and he runs his hand over his face to answer it, “ma, i’m still out, don’t worry, we’ll find her,” he starts reassuring only to hear nothing on the other end.

“hello?” he frowns.

“hoseok?”

and he almost drops his phone in relief.

“god, are you okay?” he immediately sits up, starting the car again, “where are you? i’m coming to get you right now, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“why aren’t you home?”

“huh?”

“why aren’t you home right now?”

“are you at my place?” hoseok frown becomes even deeper and he knows your silence only means one thing, he sighs out, “stay there.”

and he’s turning the car, calling your mom to tell her the news, and feeling a hundred different emotions as he reaches the lane of his apartment.

right by his door, he finds you, sitting on the floor with your knees to your chest and the rocks slid off his shoulders, he feels air enter his chest at the sight of you, unharmed and safe and breathing and…alive.

he doesn’t know why he’d even thought as far as you being dead but he couldn’t help it.

it was midnight but the moonlight, as always, found you and your tears, and hoseok sat right next to you and stretched his legs out in front of him.

 “why didn’t you say anything back?” he hears you mumble and he frowns, “when?”

“that day in summer camp, when i told you i liked you, why didn’t you say anything back?”

and hoseok sighs, the secret he’s held in his heart for as long as he remembers, starts crawling up his throat, “i like you too,” and his lack of using the past tense has you sitting up straight, tears now reduced to sniffles.

“you do?” and the way you ask it almost has him hitting his own head, how did he ever let you think otherwise?

“i would be crazy if i didn’t,” he smiles weakly at you, his heart suddenly exposed and raw and beating louder than it ever has before, and you fall back on the wall, “but you just walked away then.”

and hoseok knows he can’t hide it anymore.

“i didn’t say anything because i went to jay,” hoseok recalls how cold the night was, how quick his steps were to reach his best friend and he watches your face light up and fall, all in just seconds.

“i needed to ask him if it was okay, i needed to tell him that i liked his sister and that i wanted to take care of her, and he didn’t like it,” hoseok shakes his head, a strained laugh leaving his lips, “we fought all night, but i guess he saw how much i meant it, so he gave me his blessing,” he looks up at you and you’re closing your eyes, letting your head fall back.

“he gave us his blessing, y/n, he did and that’s why i’ve never given up on you, he was so dramatic about it, you would’ve hit him if you saw him say it,” he laughs, the memory still so fresh of jay hugging hoseok and whispering to him that he would be dead the next second if he ever hurt you, how jay stopped himself from smiling as he thought of you with him.

he kept that close to his heart and never told anyone about it, it was for him and jay until today but now, it was for you too.

every time he felt bitter over the years that you avoided him, hoseok reminded himself that he loved you and he always will, and jay would love that hoseok loved you.

and you’re holding back sobs that still escape and tear into the world.

“i’m sorry,” he hears you say and he hums before placing your head on his shoulder, he tries not to cry when he feels your sobs, he sniffles and looks at his feet.

“i was so scared that morning, i told you everything i’ve never told anyone the night before and you still treated me with love, i thought you would tell me to leave, that you would finally have had enough but you didn’t and it still scared me. you shouldn’t be in my life hoseok, i will ruin you,” his heart sinks and hoseok moves closer to you because he doesn’t know where he belongs if it’s not beside you.

“i don’t want to be anywhere else,” he says and presses his hand to the side of your head.

“i can’t stop missing him, hoseok, i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you shake your head and he sighs, feeling his throat close up.

“i miss him too.”

“but it’s been so long and i feel like i should move on by now, i don’t know,” you mumble, your tears falling into his shirt and skin.

“jay’s not some ancient history but i think he would hate both of us for being stuck like this.”

“i don’t know another way to live.”

“neither do i,” he shrugs, he knows how lonely he’s felt, how solitary his life was but, “but it will always hurt, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, you lost a brother, a companion for life, i lost a best friend, my soulmate and it’s always going to hurt. but i don’t want either of us to be alone in that pain, we don’t deserve that.”

life can take everything away from him but if we had a few good people and he could love those people, that was enough for him.

“it’s about time we start living for jay, do everything he would’ve done, feel everything he would’ve felt, and keep him alive, don’t you think so?”

and when you nod, fall on his shoulder, and whisper your love to him, it’s just like the first time, the most honest words he’s heard in his life.

hoseok knows his life can sometimes feel empty but sometimes, like right now, it can feel so full that he wouldn’t know what to do with all the love he gave and received.

he whispers his love back to you.

until dawn, you cried on his shoulder, and in the morning, hoseok made breakfast for you, you kissed him and whispered your thanks, he kissed you and whispered his love again, and you smiled and ate the food he made.

and it was calm, normal, another day but everything had changed once again for hoseok.

because this time, he had you and you had him, and in both your hearts and minds, you had jay.

and you learned to live life again, with love, and not just regret, with happiness, and not just guilt.

you lived, not just to grieve and mourn, but to actually live and build a life, with hoseok right by your side.

-

taglist: @blissingtaehyung @cuteipat @hobicorewhore @yoongleskitten @mrjeonghan @greenie-frog @avawants2havefun @an-ever-angry-bi @alyenorgondorwarrior thank you all so much for liking the preview, i hope you enjoy the full fic <3]

[7brownsuga7]

Hobi boyfriend headcanon ♡

He’s literally like your best friend. You guys do everything together, it feels so natural. You can banter with him like a friend and love him like a lover.

His camera roll is filled with pictures and videos of you. He enjoys taking them, and loves to look back at them. He’ll even show you them and will laugh and watch you get embarrassed.

Random pics. Like I said his camera roll is filled with you. No matter where you are he has to stop and take pictures to capture the moment. Loads of candid and off guard pics too.

Posting you all the time with cute caption and music to go with it.

Doesn’t like to colour coordinate but likes to kind of match. Like not those cringy couple outfits, but he likes to coordinate his outfits with yours.

Very touchy feely. He loves having his hands on you and giving you little kisses. Hugs, hand holding, thigh gripping all of that.

Loves hearing about drama. You’ve got any work tea? He’s all ears. He knows about some drama? He’s telling you for sure! And if there’s any drama/tea involving you he will be on your side no matter what. “Baby that’s ridiculous you’re not in the wrong at all” (even if you are lfmao)

Pamper days! He will match his nails to yours! And will post them along with yours. He’ll definitely get your initials on them.

Cherishes little moments like playing music in the kitchen and dancing with each other.

This will be a relationship that involves dancing. Come on it’s Hobi we’re talking about! He’ll love having little silly dance battles or just getting lose and dancing around the house. He’ll also plan dates where you might dance, like bars/little gigs.

Whatever you want you get. He’ll cater to you 100% he loves buying you things and doing things for you. Whatever makes you happy.

Wants to see you succeed. Whatever your passion is he is behind 100%. He’ll help you achieve your goals and is your no.1 supporter.

He confides in you and loves talking to you about his interests and passion. And will love to introduce them to you.

[hoseoksluna]

CRANBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and... hyeonwol)

genre: heavy smut, angst

word count: 18.4k

summary: the final breaking of the curse hurts, but pain brings fruit.

pinterest board: cranberries / taglist: join

warnings: physical violence, fight, daddy issues, alcohol consumption, smoking, thigh humping, female masturbation, use of a vibrator, squirting, multiple orgasms, oral sex (f. and m. receiving), raw sex, conception, fears of infertility, finger sucking

note: THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE BERRIES SERIES WHAT. i can't breathe, i can't speak. i wrote the moment i woke up and it's now 4pm. ran out of cigs. :( i was so emotional as i was in this world with them and i love them. so much. i'm so excited for you to read this. i had iffy feelings about this series in the beginning, but that has changed. i love every chapter, every detail, every moment. and i think i did a good job. so, enjoy this. i poured my entire heart into this. my issues, personal experiences, everything. it means a lot to me. i love you, guys. i'm happy to give this to you after two long weeks! HAPPY READING.

side note: please, do check out the pinterest board. i'll add pics of every place oc and hobi have been. <3 SPAM MY INBOX. I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

The sleep lines are paused shooting stars across his back. The dips and definition pools of refreshment for those dimmed lights and when you cross over the threshold with Hobi right behind you, with his finger hooked over the waistband of your ivory mini skirt, your own fingers gain feeling. Much to your dismay, they remember the sharpness of those lines, the stickiness of his sweat as his body boiled during any weather he slept through. 

He must have been on the brink of awakening, for you didn’t wait long before he answered the door. His gray curtains are pulled in and Jungkook walks over them, invites in the light of the early afternoon. In your peripheral vision, you recognize that the easel, which holds the painting in all its glory, is right there on your left side, and you strain your eyes to remain fixed on his bare back, even as wrong as that is. Hobi’s word of advice regarding thinking twice before you look at the artwork are pink blossoms that begin to grow in your ribs, spreading down to your stomach—because whether you like it or not, the place you find yourself to be in used to be one of absolute safety. 

It used to be your home, once upon a time. 

Cold, cold home that only ever reached tepidity at best. It’s all you ever knew—as the home you grew up in with your parents invariably had the same temperature. The same energy, too, charged with silence, ignorance and very little care that seldom carried love. 

Which brings a certain thought to the front of your head, just as Jungkook is bathed in light, arms extended as if he bore wings. 

He never loved you. 

Because if he did, then his home and the memories that are rushing in would feel the way Hobi feels. 

And like Hobi carried the false beauty in his heart, in his life—in the form of the poetry book—you carried the false perception of safety. If Hobi wasn’t here, if the stability of his antique stature wasn’t a wall doused in rain-kissed humidity that you now feel your body gravitating towards, and even if his finger wasn’t hooked behind your skirt, you wouldn’t feel safe. 

But on the other hand, softness coats Jungkook. Strange, strange softness that you haven’t seen in ages. Since the first days of your relationship, the first dates, the first kisses and touches, for everything you did with Jungkook was different each time, never the same until his life story shared with his childhood best friend ended on bad terms and the guy moved across the sea. It’s what triggered his mental issues that in the long run ended your story with him. 

As it seems, Jungkook has been trying to write a sequel that was never meant to exist. 

He bends over his coffee table and it is only now that you notice the clutter of crumpled tissues that he now picks up. Bile scratches your throat as needles prick it because it dawns on you fairly quickly what those issues served him for. A blanket is strewn over the backrest of his leather couch and a singular, flat pillow is propped against the armrest. He slept on it during the night; had a perfect view of the painting right across from him. And if your mind serves you well, he sent that picture in the middle of the night, in which he deliberately showed you that creating the message sexually thrilled him. 

It’s not hard to pinpoint that he fist-fucked himself while looking at the painting. And by the number of tissues that he hides in his palms and throws away in the bin in the kitchen, it’s evident his gratification process took a long, long time. 

You anticipate the bile pouring out of your throat again, but… it never comes. Oddly, it’s second-hand embarrassment that you sense swirling in the cranberry lumps of your bloodstream, its fumes drooping your pink blossoms, your veins thick and ghastly on your wrists. And while you should feel disgusted, for some reason you don’t. 

The discovery added magnitude to the star of his softness, weightiness and substance. It made it more real, bigger. It envelops him, confusing your mind because the only way it allows you to remember him is through the pain he caused you, using the expression of his fury. He broke your heart. Degraded you. Handled you harshly. Threw away your vape. Made you lose the respect you had for him, the worship you carried in the back of your heart. This can’t be the same person, kissed by a good night’s sleep. 

You don’t recognize him and you feel so out of place, standing in the middle of an obscure, amorphous dream that you’re trying to remember. A bizarre, uncanny feeling. You wish to run—as it lessens your form into that milky blue aura of smallness, but not in the way you like. Your body pleads to stand behind Hobi and clutch the back of his shirt in your fists while he steps in and makes order. But the energy around is too light, too gentle for a fight. 

Which is why you’re not sure if it’s a good idea that Hobi should unfurl his plan here. 

Hobi looks down at you as Jungkook answers his phone in the kitchen. You didn’t hear a thing due to the way you were lost in your thoughts and your confusion deepens as you regard the crooked furrow of his brow and the pinpricks of his pupils. Hobi wraps his arm low on your waist, tugging you flush to his side, kissing the plane of your head, lingering there for a second more as he inhales the natural scent of your hair. One you didn’t wash today, for he kept you busy. You fear he can smell your puke on you from earlier, despite the fact you almost sprayed the entirety of your vanilla perfume on yourself that you carry in your purse before you and him left together. You grow insecure, lessening furthermore. 

“Do I stink?” you ask, hushedly, gazing up at him with intention, willing him to answer you truthfully. Hobi smiles down at you, tenderly, pleased with the hint of familiarity and normalcy in the middle of the battlefield. Inhaling your scent and touching you diminished the intensity of the bloodthirst in his eyes and you’re glad for it. You hope that he perceives the elephant in the room and doesn’t strike first, but knowing how smart he is, you trust that he will, if he hasn’t already. 

Hobi doesn’t answer you. His smile falls as briskly as it appeared and his head swivels in the direction of the kitchen, features tight and startling. Your heart ceases its beat for a second before it speeds up, thumping painfully against your ribcage. What did Jungkook say over the phone? You weren’t paying attention. 

He lets go of you and stomps over to the kitchen. His back faces you, bringing your consciousness into present time, shudders with long staccatos of breaths. He’s fuming. Concern crawls up your back, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 

“So, that’s what you do? You traumatize my girlfriend while you have someone else on the side?” Hobi says, brusquely, placing his fists on his hips. “Does she know you paint degrading pictures of your ex in your spare time?” 

A beat of silence. Your breath hitches in your throat.

Your blood freezes over and you don’t know how your legs take you over to Hobi, weak and tingling as they are. You can’t feel anything. Can’t feel your fingers as they hook over his back pocket, your inner child’s deepest wish infiltrating through reality. 

Jungkook worries his bottom lip, his phone still held over his ear, and he exhales, shortly through his nose, dropping his gaze. “I’ll call you back.” 

He throws the phone over the kitchen island, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as he so often does, staring Hobi down. 

There’s no doubt she heard it. Hobi said it loud enough. 

Good. 

Good of Hobi to take the ruination by its legs and launch it back at its creator. You change your mind by the shift of the energy, having foolishly forgotten the girl personification of the storm that you saw by Jungkook’s side in the museum. She has no idea how preoccupied he’s been with you, chasing you down ever since he laid his eyes on you after nearly a month. And you pity her. She doesn’t deserve this kind of unfair treatment, no matter the hostility she showed you and the fraction of the same emotion you felt towards her in return. 

Jungkook had it coming, that’s what you’re sure of now—sowing the seeds of his downfall in your orchard. What he didn’t know was that by staying around, hurting not just you, but another vulnerable person at the same time, he would also reap its poisonous growth. You hope his hands are red and burning, pulling out the weeds and poison ivy. 

He leans against the kitchen counter, the muscle of his pierced brow quivering with the onrush of anger. You find it so pathetic that you almost dryly snicker, backed by the continuous, fatherly act of Hobi standing up for you—your antique wall, the architecture of the old, Mediterranean times. 

Strong and unwilling to break under pressure. 

“My personal life is none of your business—”

“And mine is?” Hobi interrupts him, leaning forward due to the influence of his own anger and the sight is horrifying. If you were in Jungkook’s place, you’d be trembling like a sissy. Hobi laughs, scornfully, doing it for you and your heart rejoices. “You stalked my wife, touched her, painted that shitty—”

Wife.

“I didn’t stalk her,” Jungkook says, awfully calmly, as if he were bored, despite the tremor of his pierced brow that divulges the true face of his feelings. “Wife?” He laughs, humorlessly, and you bunch your fists, letting go of your private, personal link to Hobi. Even though you swore you wouldn’t raise them again when facing him, it’s all you want to do now for the way he mocked something so meaningful to you. Raise them and use them until they bruise. 

The concern that hung over your back fades into a discomposure that slices over your skin with a blunt knife. Over and over, maddened by the incessant rampage to cause you pain, incited by his mockery. Won’t let up until blood pours out.  

“Don’t talk over me, I wasn’t finished,” Hobi scolds and your second-hand embarrassment for the opponent doubles, abating your discomposure just like that. 

The knife is lifted in the air, paused. 

Jungkook’s jaw begins to tremble, disliking the easiness to Hobi’s overpowering tendencies, the way his stern words force him to become that aforementioned sissy that you’d be in his place. You think it suits him right. 

“You shamed my—” Hobi points to his heart, like Jungkook did last night when he bared his feelings for you and your throat dries, unbelief peculiarly setting your discomposure free at the rightful turning of tables. “Wife for moving on with her life, for becoming the person she needed to become without you controlling her. Sent her a picture of your dick while you were at it, belittling her, using sex to lure her back to you as if she wasn’t smart, as if she wasn’t mine. You did all that and you think you’re gonna come out of this unscathed? Let your girlfriend see what you’ve done. What, you were going to hide that painting under your bed like a little bitch?” 

It’s Hobi who laughs now, the sound full of that same mockery Jungkook used to inflict pain. You wrap a hand around his arm, coming over to stand side by side with him, sliding your hand down to his, needing it and not being afraid of it. Not to his palm, but over the back of his hand, slipping your fingers through his. And together you clench that singular fist, stronger. 

You thought all your life that you were stupid. Your own Father bashed you for it every chance he had; you, yourself, hated your being for it with all your might. Thought it was the root of the curse over your life, made strong by your bad decisions, bad actions, bad footfalls. Learning that Hobi doesn’t regard you as such cuts that majority of your life away from you. He binds up your wounds, cleaning them. And the fact he put two and two together apropos the meaning of the painting, the reason behind the punishment, using your recitation of the bizarre poem is a kiss to make the boo-boo better. 

You weep, silently. Your love for Hobi trickles out of your tear ducts, doesn’t touch your makeup, doesn’t steal the attention of the two males away from each other. It dips into your ribcage through your chest, sprucing them until they can breathe again and fill your lungs with sweetened, poetic air, with a will to live on, reminding you that you have a future ahead of you that is beautiful and bereft of the curse and all you’ve ever known. 

And you wash that breath, purposefully, over the bare skin of Hobi’s warmth. Remind him, too, as you press your lips over it. He squeezes yours and his united fist, hearing you. 

Lifting your gaze, Jungkook crosses his arms over his chest, devoid of those sleep lines. His biceps bulge, but it does nothing to you. Hobi’s fixing of your dignity, heart and life has taken care of that, all via that sonnet of his that he spat in Jungkook’s face, one that contorts in envy upon seeing your intertwined hand with Hobi’s. He nibbles on his bottom lip, eyes wetting, but the following words he says sting as if his face never wore those softened emotions. And the discomposure returns in the form of a colossal spider on your back. A slimy, heavy, breathing spider. 

You cringe, tensing your muscles, nuzzling your body deeper into Hobi’s arm. It only menaces your vivaciousness, but the fluff on your body stands on end, nonetheless. 

“She came here to look at the painting. I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he mutters, crossing his leg. Double protection. He’s stuck in a peril—feels vulnerable and threatened, just like Hobi said. “She likes being spanked, being punished. That’s why she’s here.” 

It takes two seconds for Hobi to release your hand and slap him like the little bitch he is. A fatherly discipline, that hard swoop of the back of his hand, a new line indenting his carmine face, one belonging to the ring on Hobi’s middle finger. Absolutely humiliating, that act you are a witness to—but you don’t feel a slither of pity for him. The joy from your heart springs to your eyes and you feel yourself blinking unorthodoxly—more briskly, serenely, femininely. 

The spider jumps off your back, afraid of Hobi. You sigh in relief, willing strength into your knees as they signify their giving out on you, boneless as they are. 

And Jungkook is afraid, too, once he recuperates from the hit, straightening, but not facing the king. His mouth rounds as if he were on the verge of crying, and maybe he is. He focuses on stalling the natural flow of his emotions, his pride forbidding him from being weak, even as he’s getting hit like a teenage boy. 

But Hobi makes him look at him. He grabs his face, repeating the motion of last night; squeezing his cheeks until his knuckles turn white, although this time Jungkook doesn’t moan in pain. He scrambles the last of that pride of his, threading it into the stiflement of his reaction. 

“Are you that dumb that you forgot about what I told you that would happen if I heard those words come out of your mouth again?” he seethes in his face. Jungkook sucks in quick breaths, a caged animal, furious. “You degraded her again. You’re asking for it at this point.” He slaps him again, harder this time, still with the back of his hand. Doesn’t give him time to shake it off. Grabs him in the same way. “I’ll let you know that those words you read in that little message? That probably made your dick hard? Those were my words, boy. I came here to break that painting, but I changed my mind. I want your girlfriend to see the work of your hands.” 

Hobi told him the true story while he omitted the detail he could’ve used to inflict further pain on him. He could’ve said that he told you to write that message after he was done fucking your trauma out of you. He could’ve rubbed that in his face and you wouldn’t mind. 

But he didn’t. 

He respects you. Protects your dignity. Doesn’t need to flaunt his private life with you; isn’t insecure to do something like that. And along with joy, he installs something within you that you lacked all your life. 

A respect, a high regard and an expensive love for yourself. 

You stand straighter, all of a sudden. 

Jungkook looks at you. A rawness of pain daubs his even softer eyes, but you recognize that it’s all pretense, a manipulation technique that you see right through. You lift your chin higher, interlocking your hands behind your back. A powerful, feminine stance. His eyes descend to your pride in the middle of your breasts, drench as he mumbles something your way that you can’t comprehend due to the way Hobi squeezes his cheeks harder, that moan of pain slipping through, at last. 

You smile, sensing the end of this chapter. You can see the door to it, wide open, Hobi standing by it, gripping the doorknob. And he shuts it with his following words. 

“Don’t even look at her. It’s over. The little game you’re playing? You lost,” Hobi says and lets him go. Jungkook grumbles, baring his teeth, his hand shaking as he lifts it to his jaw as if to rub away the pain, but he changes his mind at the last minute. Doesn’t want to show his weakness. His hand falls, flaccidly, to the side. Throws Hobi’s way a dirty look that makes you laugh. 

“It’s over,” you intone along, lips stretched in a glinting grin, the crown of your victory. You’re the queen to your king. Jungkook gazes at you with a puppy’s sadness, for a mere second before Hobi pushes his head away from your direction with a poke of his fingers. His inhales are sharp and thunderous and you think he’d be a perfect match to his companion, that is if he were a good guy, deserving of her. 

“Did you even see the painting?” he hushes out, head still turned towards the windows, and the redness on his face inflames in vibrancy, darkening. Why he thinks he needs to keep fighting, in spite of the way Hobi overthrew him, is beyond you. His head slowly swivels back to face you and tears cloud his eyes. It inspires no pity in you, no curiosity to look behind you at the painting. “I made the background an imitation of Monet’s waterlilies. The green ones, the ones you’ve always liked. Does that mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that I still care—” 

“No,” you interrupt him and you bask in it, inhale the power. Your pink blossoms grow in abundance, becoming a collection of beauty and strength that will live on forever, never to wither. “I didn’t look at the painting and I refuse to because I don’t care.” 

You open your mouth to continue, but he outruns you. 

“So, you lied to me? Why are you here, then?” 

The wheels seem to whirr in his brain, at last. 

“My husband and I came here to make one thing clear,” you explain and you flick your eyes to Hobi just in time to catch him smiling at you, fondly, his loving pride bursting through his own pools. “It’s over. You’re not gonna bother me anymore; you’re not gonna text me, call me. In fact—” You pull out your phone out of your front pocket and unlock it, tapping on Jungkook’s contact and blocking him, deleting the number right away. “You can’t anymore.” You smile, satisfied with your decision. “I live a happy life without you and it’s going to stay that way.”

Jungkook’s posture slouches and he wrinkles his brows, mouth agape, downturned. “Husband? What the fuck is this?” 

You only lift your hand in the air, for Hobi to take, dismissing him once and for all. “Let’s go.” 

You take a step back as Hobi rushes to you in a comical, endearing way, a huge smile engraving crinkles by his glimmering, pearlescent eyes. He takes your hand and when you look at Jungkook one last time to say goodbye to him, he whimpers like a wounded animal. 

Your heart constricts, not touched by pity, but by discomfort. It’s time to leave; you don’t want to be here anymore.  

Hobi leads you towards the door and you follow him, but Jungkook’s final words halt your footsteps. Hobi’s too. 

“I can be like him and better when he drops you. Don’t forget that.” 

You frown at him, your mouth pressed in a tight line. “There’s no when to me and you. I never want to see you again. Goodbye, Jungkook.” 

He mewls, the final kick to his bruised body and you leave. 

You leave his life for good. 

The air of the afternoon’s breath is floral. You thought the clouds would’ve smothered the last remains of the summer, but it is still, most strangely, in full bloom. You feel hot in Hobi’s linen shirt and the sun is scorching hot, balmy and paradisiacal on your bare thighs, though you wish you hadn’t worn your Nike’s. Your toes are asking for some sand, for the pecks of sea waves and the entanglement of seaweed around them like tropical adornment of toe rings. 

You met the girl, the personification of storm, behind the door to his apartment. She was about to rack her knuckles on the wood like you did, but Hobi opened the door for her. Her breath hitched in her throat, hard and heavy like the wind during that storm she resembles so much, and you felt bad for her. So much that you told her to leave him, unabashedly and plainly, and didn’t stick around to hear her response. 

But you did hear muffled sounds of vocal violence and you prayed, for the first time in your life, to someone in the sky, who has always been a witness to your curse and never did a thing about it, to guide her to break that painting in two. 

Not for your healing, not at all. But for the curse to be unleashed on him, turned to him and fixed on him.

You’re not ashamed to carry such evil in your heart. You know, full well, that it will dull overtime. Your mother would’ve rebuked you, told you to forgive your enemies and wish them well, but bricking up your heart for him to feel safe is something she would never understand. Because if she did, she wouldn’t share the same home with your Father. And if she did, you would’ve never ended up with a guy like Jungkook that was the raw epitome of him. 

It’s a good thing she’ll never learn of your secret. She never met Jungkook but she looks at his face every day, and you’re not so sure if the idea of introducing Hobi to her is pleasant. You sense the time you find yourself to be in is meant to be a solitary one, spent in a bubble with your husband, and there’s nothing you want more. 

You and Hobi, alone. 

For a little while before a little creature comes along. 

The mountain peak is awaiting—you feel it profoundly in your bones. 

Hobi opens the door to his car for you, places a hand on the edge of his vehicle so you don’t hurt your head as you sit down—like he did on your first date. But he doesn’t close the door and walk over to the driver’s seat. No, he straddles you. Pushes your seat back a little in order for you to have a perfect and comfortable view of him. You sputter out your giggles, felicitously confused by his actions, and when he props his hands by your head, his smile quivering in effort to not laugh along with you, your giggles rise in volume. 

And then his gaze deepens on you, lessening the pitch. Seriousness shrouds the energy, your little giggles ringing, faintly, and you press your thighs together between his legs. 

“I’m not fucking you here,” you whisper, the sound full of humor, your eyes feignedly widened, but Hobi is deep in thought, his imaginary wings furling and unfurling in the spaciousness of his car. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, steeped in that earnest, warm and lightweight solemnity. It feels like home. That question, too. 

You relax, your expression of joy fading into a comfortable silence and you take a moment to focus on what you’re feeling right now. 

A graze of the pink blossoms on the inside of your ribs. Relief, a wave sloshing over them. Freedom, the sunlight that heats up that body of water. Joy—a full rainbow of joy after a century-long rainfall. 

And you tell him. 

“I feel free. Happy. I feel happy, Hobi.” 

He smiles, fondly, that blush rolling over his cheeks like it always does. And you love him, irrevocably. You love him, you love him, you love him. 

He did this, your God. It’s the creation of his clean hands. 

And as he kisses the tip of your nose, you thank him with the same earnestness he brought in. 

And you mean it. You would’ve died, had he not found you. You would’ve died, had you not taken him to that museum. You think about what your life would’ve looked like if you never suggested that place, but your mind stumbles upon a dead end. You can’t—there’s nothingness up ahead. 

It was meant to happen this way. Along with the pain, the tears, the scars. If it never ached this much, it wouldn’t matter; it wouldn’t have the gravity, the substance, the meaning. It would’ve been plain and it wouldn’t change your life so devastatingly, so beautifully. 

You wouldn’t have wings and neither would he. 

You kiss him right back on that slender nose of his and much to your surprise, he gives his voice over to your heart. 

“I love you,” he confesses, the pearls in his eyes wetting, and he cradles your face. Your heart stops and then beats differently—in a way you never heard it sing before. “Is it too soon to say that?” 

Another surprise comes. A tear trickles down your cheek, a happy, elated, small rivulet that cleanses the last, difficult events that just ended. Down your cheek that stretches and aches, blissfully, as you smile up at him. 

“Is it too soon to say that I love you, too?” 

The song melts into another poetic stanza and Hobi kisses you. But he smiles as well, so the kiss is full of clashing of teeth and sudden hunger to express the fulfillment of that love. You and him try and try again until your lips mold into his and the hard kiss, filled with passion, respect and devotion, splits the curse in two. 

Now the residue, the smithereens only need to be fucked out of you.  

Hobi will do a good job, no doubt. 

“Let’s celebrate.” 

Hobi was eyeing a bottle of soju in a market nearby his house, but settled eventually for a bottle of spirits that he’s now popping open and drinking right from the lip of the tall, glass container. He’s sat on the ground of your bedroom, back propped against your bed, the bottle between his outstretched legs as he watches you strip out of the combination of yours and his clothes. A blackberry vape might be in your hand, the fume curling around the curds of cranberries that your blood still consists of, but a pack of cigarettes lies crooked on your bedding.

You told Hobi you needed something stronger after that happened. And he brushed a wisp of your hair away from your face and said he’d willingly have a cigarette with you as he still felt adrenaline coursing through his smooth bloodstream. Bought a pack of gold Davidoff’s for you, the ones you shared with him that you used to smoke until…

You haven’t voiced your panic, though. Not in the market, not in the car, not right now as you’re standing in front of your closet, searching for a lounging outfit to wear, similarly like Hobi did back at his house a few hours ago. Jungkook forbade you from smoking. Hated the sight of it. Hated it even more when you switched to vapes. And as you recollect his anger whenever he saw you with it, you can’t believe you let him do it. Can’t believe you stopped smoking just to please him. 

And you can’t believe Hobi bought you a pack. With his own money, by his own will. To please you. 

You should be feeling happy right now, but the panic… it stands behind you, the silhouette of Jungkook’s form, waiting for you to take that cigarette between your fingers and place it between your lips, daring you, taunting you, waiting for the right moment to strike, to rebuke, to untether its anger. It’s what keeps you planted on your feet, whisking your eyes up and down along the corner of your closet, where your comfortable clothes are neatly folded. 

You’re afraid to turn around. Afraid to see Jungkook there—

“Come here.” 

Hobi’s voice. Not Jungkook’s. 

“I need to get dressed,” you say, softly, staring down a pink wisp of your sleep shorts. 

You hear the sloshing of alcohol in the bottle. Hobi must be taking another sip. 

“You don’t, really.” 

You laugh through your nose. 

“I don’t want to get pregnant here.” 

Hobi lets out the same sound, making a smile curl on your mouth. “Come here, pup.” 

It’s the gentleness sunk within his intonation that is a force of the same nature that turns your body around. Hobi is staring at you as if he were looking up at an angel—those pearlescent eyes of his bright and swimming, but not prematurely under the influence of the alcohol. They’re swimming with love. 

You used to be an angel. Now you’re you. 

And Jungkook isn’t standing there; Jungkook is gone. 

You walk over to him with ease, the panic dispersing and flying out your wide open window, your rosy curtains guiding it out. You sit on his outstretched thighs and as your bum plops down, you take off his green beanie. Run your fingers through his hair, fluffing them. Cradle his face to your naked bosom as you inhale him, tracing patterns on his scalp. 

Hobi begins to purr and you melt, becoming a liquid form of you, making his hands shine in the ever undying stark sunlight as he wraps his arms around your torso, tightly. 

You’re not going anywhere, the act says. 

This is what deserves to be painted, you muse. 

Listening to him emit that sound, your heart notices the absence of Luna and it craves her, awfully missing her. And the more you receive it through your ears and it settles within the chambers of your softened muscle, you realize that you’re holding her in the form of a human. 

He’s so much like her. You recollect the way he tilted his head into your touch, join it to the memory of how she did it when you petted her head for the first time. And you test him—withdraw to pat his cheek and he does it. Leans into your touch, lingering there as you cup him. 

He’s a God and a kitty. And you love him. 

Hobi reaches for the bottle of vodka. Takes a sip as he locks his gaze with yours. Your hand slackens at the sight, dropping to the crook between his neck and his firm shoulder, and you can’t hold it. Like your limb, your eyes descend to the way his mouth is wrapped around the rim of the bottle, to the bottle of his throat as he swallows and doesn’t make a face. Lift back up to catch a glint bouncing off his wet lips and abruptly, you want a taste of that heady sting of your own. 

He can read you, and fairly well—because he drinks again, but this time he doesn’t swallow. No, he pushes your head to his in one swift, brazen motion. Parts your lips by tugging your chin down with only his thumb while he cups your cheek and, sitting up so he can once again take advantage of the size difference, he pours the pungent liquid beyond the arc of your mouth. Remains there, a breath away. It seems as though he wants to feel you swallow, wants to inhale that sharp scent of the alcohol; wants to sense in his bones that principle of him giving it to you in a profound, private way. 

And you swallow it, fixing your attention on the burn coursing down your throat, softened by his saliva. This—this was your first drink, a safe occurrence, watched over by your Father. The ones you had before in your past life didn’t have a sliver of the magnitude that you feel suffusing your lungs. This is your first life with him. 

“That was so hot.” 

You agree with him, liquid heat pooling low in your core, and you need that cigarette. And his dick impaling you as you take that deep, heavy drag that you haven’t inhaled in months. 

And most peculiarly, there’s no panic, nor fear, as you snatch that pack of cigarettes from your bedding behind his head and look for the little flap that will help you open it. Hobi lifts his hand from your cheek, though, and steals it from you—finding the flap with ease and opening it as if he spent the last decade faithfully smoking. 

Your panties are ruined, just like that. 

Drenched when he pops the butt of the cigarette between his wet lips, rummaging in his pocket for the pink lighter that he got you along with the pack. 

Soaking when he lights it up for you, blows the first smoke into your mouth, pecks you softly, and places the butt between your lips. 

But he doesn’t place his hand back on your face—he keeps his thumb and forefinger on the body of the cigarette, the burning tip facing him, holding it for you as you take a drag. The thick smoke billows around his palm, milky blue in the golden light, and as soon as its heaviness caresses your lungs and you exhale it into the air, he returns the cigarette back to its original place. Puffs it one more time before he lets you have it, coughing a little, blowing the fume onto your bare breasts, lips opened halfway in a tiny circle. The warmth tickles and your body naturally curls forward in reaction, your arms pushing your breasts together. Hobi makes a sound that is a godly synthesis of a coo and a moan, uttered from his weakening grin, eyes gliding over your squished breasts. 

Eyes that never darken when regarding your nakedness; eyes that remain full of that celestial, sea-kissed light. 

Do they have the ocean in heaven? He must know, for he’d been formed by it. 

And you want to be stuffed full in it. 

Hobi must like the sight he sees because he takes a finger and drives it down the right side of your body. From your clavicle, down to your breast, your stiffened nipple that he stops at, pinching it, heightening the pressure until you squeak, the pool bursting in your core. At that sound, he continues on his path down your stomach and you let him feel the contraction of your muscles there as your body reacts to his touch. He ends his venture at the waistband of your panties and he tugs it towards himself, peeking inside. 

“Someone’s wet,” he comments and you cough, embarrassingly, caught off guard, as you take a drag of your cigarette, not expecting him to say that. Hobi smirks and the growing moistness on that fabric becomes uncomfortable. He rubs your back, helping your lungs to quiet down, the waistband snapping back making you jump—and incredibly horny. 

He steals the lung burner and you love it, your obsession with it construed by his apparent need to smoke in this heavily sexually-charged situation. You wonder if he’s holding himself back from breeding you right here and there. 

He could, if you wanted him to do it here—all things are settled, after all. But you don’t. You don’t want to reach the peak in your bedroom, where Jungkook has been so many times. 

You want it to happen at a place, where his footfalls never ventured. 

“Someone’s wet from watching their man smoke,” you flirt, looking at him through your lashes, hips instinctually drawing closer to his crotch and beginning their dance. Back and forth, the rhythm of the sea. 

“Don’t do that or I’ll fuck you,” he threatens, flicking his eyes to the rising peak of the cigarette ash and he bores them into yours with a challenge. “Be a good pup and get me an ashtray, please.” 

Please? 

Yes, Daddy. 

Ashtray? No. 

That would mean going to the kitchen and flipping it upside down in search of it. You stand up to your feet, your wetness flowing down your inner thighs with the movement, and you fetch the empty glass from your bedside table, lonesome and dust-scattered. You can’t really remember the last time you put it there. 

Sitting back down, you straddle his thigh as you hold the glass for him to flick the ash there. And once he does, you start to move back to your original position, but he stops you. 

“Stay here,” he says, enveloping an arm around your waist. “Ride it. Make a mess for me.” 

You don’t hesitate to do so, your body begs you for a release, weakened yet enlivened by his command. But the question of why he doesn’t want to fuck you bothers you and you decide to voice it out, willfully. Unafraid, safe, comfortable. 

You roll your hips forward on his thigh, which he flexes for you. The curves of his toned muscles hit the right spot and you throw your head back, using his throat for support, mewling little sounds that make him bite his lip, abandon his cigarette, let it fall into the cup that he forces away from your grip and sets it down. The smoke still billows out, twirling around your form, magnificently. 

“Why don’t you wanna fuck me?” 

Hobi sucks in a breath, leaning his head back against the mattress, hands following the movement of your hips. Drunk not on the alcohol, but on you. 

“Because I’ve been nonstop fucking you and I don’t want your little pussy to be sore,” he says, truthfully, adding vigor to your dance with his words, even if he doesn’t realize it. “Which is why I want you to use me like this when you need me.” He breathes, raggedly, and you’re dazed. “And because—” He fists the front of your panties, squeezing the fabric between your folds, stimulating your clit with the pressure. “The next time I fuck you, we’re making a baby.” You cry out, your pleasure heightened, and, meeting your thrust, he slides the knuckles of his fingers down to your clit, letting you ride them, letting himself feel the swollenness, softness and wetness of your flesh. He moans along with you—the feeling divine. “You said you didn’t want it here. Tell me where.” 

You can’t. Your orgasm quickens as do your grinding motions and you can’t see, you can’t speak, you squeeze your eyes shut—

“No, pup.” He stretches the fabric towards himself, essentially moving his hand away, and pushing your stomach back, your hips rolled forward, pussy throbbing and dripping in the air. You pant, gripping his hair at the crown of his head, eyes flung open, yet lidded. Terribly, terribly lidded. Sultry, dreamy, mesmeric. Despite the fact he ripped your orgasm away. “You don’t come unless you tell me where.” 

He holds you in place, immobilizing you. You try to grind on him again, but to no avail. You expect him to click his tongue at your brattiness, but he doesn’t. 

He does something else entirely. 

“Take your time. I know. That was really intense.”

It’s a stark contrast to the restraint he has you in—your slowly sobering brain makes a note of that, only to dip back into the stupefying pool of your arousal. 

And you whine, electrified by the pleasure that comes from all directions, that pushes forcibly against your neediness, heightening it. 

You can’t take your time. You can’t tell him right now. You need to come. 

“I can’t, Hobi.” Your breath shudders. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he rasps and you can see the way your neediness affects him, his chest heaving with almost identical staccatos, as though he was zapped with the delight he gets from it. His pupils are so dilated as his eyes melt into yours, a black pearl, but still enveloped by light. Cheeks flushed, mouth wet. The scent of patchouli, cigarettes and vodka, the remote corner of heaven. 

You try to breathe, fluidly, as you take it in and Hobi helps you. Breathes with you, steadies the cadence of your recuperation. Doesn’t stop until he’s assured that your lungs are calm. And as a reward, he lets your panties slap back against your pussy, coaxing a moan out of you. 

Doesn’t remove his hand from your hip, though. 

A quid pro quo. 

All right. 

“I don’t want to get pregnant here. Not in Seoul, not in Korea,” you start, your lungs in a perfect rhythm. Hobi’s eyes enlarge as he listens, fingers spreading over your bum, just holding you there, squeezing the flesh every once in a while. The gesture soothes you, blesses you with tenderness that helps you continue with your words. “I want you to take me overseas, where I’ve never been.” 

He hums, nodding, thinking for a mere moment, his eyes distracted on your belly button. And when he lifts them, he smiles. “Any particular place in mind?” 

The country slips off your tongue, naturally, on its own, and you think that’s the one. Your heart spoke it, so it must be the place. You haven’t given much thought prior to it, just knew you didn’t want to conceive a child on this soil that remembers nothing but your pain and anguish. You held this within the chambers of your heart before you met Hobi—and way before you met Jungkook. And you figure that in the process it acknowledged itself with Hobi, studied his face, learned the ins and outs of his heart in such a short time, it riddled out the place, where the curse is meant to be broken in. 

Once and for all. 

“Turkey.” 

You’ve seen the videos. Seen the dramas. The pictures. It met you and kept meeting you throughout your life, but you never gave much meaning to it. And now you perceive why. 

You reckon that’s how life works. And it feels nice—to get to know life, to get to know its mercifulness. 

“That’s a beautiful place, pup,” he whispers, taking his hands off of your body and cradling your face, pulling you closer and kissing you, lingering there for two, three, four seconds more. Your heart jumps, delighted to be validated, and you feel like weeping happily. 

“You’ve been there before?” you ask, the wetness of your eyes gracing it with a glint that very seldom finds your usually saddened pools. 

This is it. 

This is it. 

“I’ve had business meetings with Turkish companies that do their job well. Good people, good atmosphere.” Hobi smiles, reminiscing on something private and his cheeks warm. 

You wish, intimately, that he would tell you everything. 

“Will you tell me about them when we get there?” 

Hobi nods, pecking your chin. “Yes, and then I’ll fill you up.” 

You grin as he lingers there beneath you, eyes so bright and big, becoming crinkly at the corners once he reciprocates the grin. He kisses the front column of your next, tasting the layer of sweat that has enveloped it during your oh so evident neediness and you dip your head in your pool of arousal all over again—as soon as he withdraws and slaps your thigh, signaling you to hump his thigh. 

You can’t wait to get knocked up. Hope time passes quickly, transforms into a substance that lifts you up and carries you all the way to Turkey, mercifully, kindly. 

It’s this notion that you focus on as your hips begin to roll forwards and backwards on his thigh, but this time, as Hobi watches you with intention, he pulls your drenched panties to your side, his hand coming over to your bum and doing the same thing there, so the fabric doesn’t get in the way. 

You kiss him for it, hungrily, licking over his tongue, and he moans into your mouth, the sound traveling down your body until it roots in your clit, where it spreads and drums a hymn for your feminine titillation. 

And the feeling is divine—the sparks of pleasure that shoot up your core while your bare pussy rubs against the fabric of his pants, darkening it ever so quickly with your wetness. The feeling that he enjoys it, even more so when he voices it out. 

“This is what it does to me,” he murmurs so terribly close to your puffed lips, grasping your hand and leading it to the place between his outstretched legs that he speaks of. He presses it against his painfully hard imprint and your fingers automatically wrap around it as much as they can, as if they recognize it’s their own toy. “To see you get turned on like this. To watch you use me because of it. I’m crazy for you—”

His phone rings in his pocket and your heart stops—as do your motions. 

And you fear, rottenly, that it’s Jungkook who’s calling him. That he somehow found his number and is back at it again, clutching the curse like a sword in his hand. Ready to ruin, ready to devastate. 

The feeling paralyzes you enough that it dries up your pool of arousal and you can’t blink, you can’t breathe, you can’t move. Your mouth parts, but no breaths come out. 

At the sliver of freedom and joy—

“Jung Hoseok speaking,” Hobi answers the phone, the device slender and way bigger than his monumental hand, gazing into your eyes. Unblinking, too. 

He listens to the other side spilling information in and once you catch his mouth flattening, those dimples gouging something unpleasant onto the smooth surface above his top lip and the brightness in his eyes dimming ever so slightly, the cranberries of your blood crumble, uncomfortably, beneath the skin of your forearms. 

You pull your hand away from his crotch, slipping out of his grasp. He stops you before you get up on your feet, holding your strayed hand as he listens some more. 

It can’t be Jungkook. 

Hobi wouldn’t listen to a word he said and that phone would’ve long been flung across the room, if it were him. 

You sigh a breath of relief, your body relaxing and slouching. You run a hand through your hair, gripping it at the back of your head to will some feeling into your muscles—as there’s nothing to fear. 

It’s over. 

It’s fucking over. 

No ruination. No devastation. No impending curse about to absorb your life. 

Nothing. 

“I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate your work and thought, but allow me to remind you that it’s Sunday and I don’t work on Sundays, neither do my employees—”

Oh, the big bad boss. 

The person on the other side interrupts him and Hobi scrunches his brows, mouth parting at the disrespect. Then, a smirk crawls over his mouth and he rolls his eyes, directing that smile towards you as the brightness in his eyes blossoms back. Playfully, he rolls his eyes again now that he knows he’s got your attention—and silently, he mimics the words the other person is saying, mocking them. 

You laugh, softly, your relief expanding in you and shifting you back into your comfort zone. Hobi’s eyes widen and, using his intertwined hand with yours, he presses his index finger to his lips to signal to you to be quiet. 

And he shouldn’t have done that. 

He refreshes your pool. 

And he seems to be aware of it by the way his countenance grows serious. It does something to you—the way he’s listening, working essentially, while being attentive to your feelings and state of mind. It’s attractive, the splitting of his attention. And you don’t have to rock your hips first—he encourages you to do it by curtly nodding his head at your hips, untwining from your hand and guiding your pelvis to dance again. 

Not for him. 

For you. 

And the pleasure is much bigger this time around. 

You can’t stifle your noises. 

“That sounds absolutely great,” he says, quickly, in order to camouflage the volume of your delight as you hump his thigh faster, more vigorously, your breasts bouncing and slapping against each other. Hobi watches them with a deep furrow of his brows and his bottom lip caged between his teeth. Tortured, absolutely tortured. 

It only urges you on—and you find yourself in a vapor of horniness. 

“Yes, Da—”

He clamps your mouth shut with his hand, your moan caught in his palm. That act alone drives you prematurely to the peak of your orgasm and you know, you know, that if your clit rubs against his toned, clothed thigh just once, you’ll be coming all over him. 

But Hobi manhandles you, pushes you down, gently, onto the floor. 

You’d think he was angry with you, hadn’t he smiled at you—and your vapor thickens, your hormones fucking with your brain. Hovering above you, he grips your throat, merely holds you there without any pressure, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

He fucking kisses the tip of your nose. 

Your pool leaks onto the floor. 

“Be quiet,” he mouths and does it again, more prominently, to make sure you understand what he’s voicelessly saying to you. “Yes, I have about five employees in that department who would be willing to work on that. Very diligent and dedicated. One of the best people I’ve ever had under me.” 

He cringes, realizing the wrong string of words he used in that silence, and you burst out into laughter—one he has to silence by clamping your mouth shut again, looking away to focus on a fixed point somewhere in your bedroom while smiling himself. 

And you get his attention right back at you when you lick his palm. You expected him to be repulsed by it, but his eyes enlarge and his mouth falls agape as strange feelings wash over him. Then, he ruts against nothing and plunges two of his fingers, index and middle, into your mouth. 

Your slick is warm as it trickles down your flesh and onto the floor; your body hot all over from the situation, the secrecy, his dominance and his fingers alone. His eyes deepen when they slide over your full mouth and you can see, even through your thick vapor, the way he’s swallowing down his growls. He strokes your tongue, barely, softly, plunging them further until he hits the spot that makes you gag. It sobers him quite rapidly, the sound. Swearing—still voicelessly—he starts to pull out his fingers, but you wrap your hands around his wrist, keeping him there as you suck on those long, slender digits, focusing on not making a sound. 

His eyes lid, heavily, at your diligence. 

“Three months, you said?” He tugs his fingers out, that anger evident, but not towards you—towards the other person. And he lets it out by ripping your panties away from your body in a blink of an eye. “Can we make that two?” He caresses the silky skin of your mound with his knuckles, without venturing downwards, and you shudder, needing him there. “Rub your clit,” he mouths and you gasp, even though you don’t know why. You’re so overwhelmed by the respect he emanates, horny and sensitive that any word he’d throw your way would make you react this way. You feel like a schoolgirl; small, submissive, breedable. And you want to please him, make him proud, do as he says. But you don’t share the same hastiness as him—because before you can get to the end of your thought process, he takes your hand and places it on your pussy. 

He must be getting the same thrill out of it. 

You rub your clit, obeying him, and watching him watch the work of your fingers as you twirl them on that swollen, little flesh—it’s nothing you ever experienced before. Your pleasure quickens, as hasty as Hobi to get you to your peak, and you have to lift your fingers in order to not come quick, your lungs heaving, your mouth letting out short breaths that make him absolutely feral. 

“Oh, pup,” he mouths, the wrinkles on his forehead divulging the depth of his torment and pleasure from the sight. “Good job. So good. Yes.” He nods, encouraging you—and you almost come right then and there, but you lift your fingers just in time. Fists clenched, you throw your head back, frustrated but pleasured just the same. And you can’t take it anymore. 

Neither can he. 

He runs his hand down the middle of your body, stopping at your thigh, wrapping your leg around his torso. 

“If you can’t make that work in two months, then we have nothing to talk about,” he bites, panting, but he hides it well, his voice untouched by it. Firmness and respect coats it, strengthens it, gives a new instrument to the hymn of your clit. “I have things to do and places to be outside of Korea and I can’t afford to be held back by three months. I’m sure I can find business partners who’d be able to make everything work in just one—”

Seething, he leans over, grabbing your vibrator. He turns up the intensity, the sound growing louder and louder and you shriek, soundlessly. 

You’re going to explode if he uses that on your tortured clit—

“Apologizes for the noise.” Hobi spits on your clit, the long string of his saliva plopping onto your flesh, making you quiver and moan, quietly. “There’s construction work outside. I guess you’re not the only one working on a Sunday.” 

The bitterness, the snide comment—you feel like screaming, in the most delicious, exhilarating way. And you do, when Hobi places the vibrator down on your needy clit. 

He moves it, rapidly, from side to side while he’s still talking on the phone, but his words are a blur that you fail to understand, your whole being fixed and concentrated on the adrenaline blended with fireworks of intense pleasure that create an orchestra of passion. His imaginary wings unfurl and beat in the air, opulent and dusky black. His eyes never falter their hypnosis as they bore into yours, coaxing your orgasm out of you, while his mouth keeps silently telling you to be quiet, praising you to motivate you. 

And you do explode. 

In his face when he explains something you can’t comprehend. 

And you come again when he takes a deep breath, stopping short in the middle of his sentence, shocked, zestful, wet and ecstatic. You sprinkle his chin and his neck, ruin, most beautifully, his polo shirt and devastate, even more so, his pants. 

And he’s grinning, so awfully pleased. 

Lifts the vibrator. Doesn’t turn it off. 

“I’m sorry. I’m getting an important call from a family member, who comes first on days such as these. Please, don’t hesitate to contact my secretary and make an appointment with me. We will discuss further on the matter. Have a nice day.” 

And he’s smart. 

Ending the call, he turns off the vibrator and tosses both things sideways. Props both arms beside each of your shoulders. And the flush that was stifled during the entirety of the work phone call now peeks through the surface, the petals of roses licking across his skin. Your own flush promenades hand in hand with him in this close proximity, your golden aura, gained from your exquisite orgasm, bathing you in holiness. 

And you still can’t speak, tongue-tied. 

He sweeps away your flyaways matted to your glistening forehead, brushing his knuckles down your face. And when he reaches your jaw, he cups your chin and kisses you, tenderly. Gives you a hundred more. Little, hungry, yet pure kisses. 

“What did we just do?” He laughs, softly, in disbelief, shaking his head. You laugh along with him, your still lingering and heightened vapor causing you to nearly levitate underneath him. 

He kisses you again, deeper this time, more slowly. Your nectar gets smeared on your cheek from his with each voracious movement of his mouth, his head. And it’s an element that makes this become real for you. That helps you fathom that you just experienced an adventurous event that wasn’t a part of the curse—that was good, through and through. 

And it’s yours. 

No one else’s. 

And he makes it even better when he shares the details of his phone call with you. Lifting you up and carrying you into the shower, he tells you of the way the “motherfucker” tried to keep him from breeding you for three months. Was cocky enough to promise him he won’t find a better business partner to work on a project that Hobi’s been passionate about for weeks—a way to get older children better education in schools in terms of things that aren’t normally taught: surviving skills, basic medical skills, cooking skills and life skills regarding various of things that they will need during and after high school. His organization also offers a form of preschool and elementary babysitting, therapy, library, game activities, singing, dancing, language learning—anything to keep those kids busy and away from their phones. It’s a place of rest, a place of safety and comfort and Hobi works hard to maintain that. 

The guy offered his premises and means of educational materials, even though Hobi makes do just fine—but it wouldn’t be available for at least three months. He explained that he needed them for the semester, wanted to elevate his ways, which is why he sent out a word. 

He told you all this while washing you clean in the steamy, hot shower. And it wasn’t until a week later that you found out the guy truly wasn’t able to make it happen sooner, but upon talking with him in person, Hobi was so satisfied with him and his work ethic, that he was willing to risk it. What he didn’t tell him over the phone was that he specializes in a group of orphaned children, homeless, and those who live in children’s homes. And Hobi’s mind was blown, his heart moved and softened, enough to shake his hand and start working on this renewed, expanded project. He put the kids that weren’t his first—and you fell in love with him deeper than you ever had before. 

And it wasn’t until spring came about and the first heat waves of the sun caressed your skin that he booked the flight, paid for a luxurious hotel resort in Antalya, paid for your mani, pedi, your Shein order and shopping sprees in malls, where he found you the simple dress he was apparently going to marry you in, and held your hand the entire way there. It took half a year to fulfill his longing and his biggest dream—and half a year to break your curse. You spent it visiting him in the office to bring him snacks, eye patches and face masks, distracted him with quick fucks, strip-teases, blow jobs underneath the table while he kept his suit on, smeared makeup and lipstick on his face and collar whenever you were in the mood to make out with him. 

It took such a long time, but you didn’t mind at all—because at night, you and him would pretend. Hobi didn’t want you to get on birth control; cared enough for your well-being by not wanting to confuse your body for a few months. Settled for the play of pretending—for condoms and nutting inside, going through the motion that there’s no latex preventing his longing from erupting. And during the day, you got to know him on a more meaningful, profound level. 

He loves to dance. Has danced with you in the living room on multiple occasions. Slow dancing, bachata, lambada. He wasn’t shy; enjoyed every minute of it and you watched him shine like the heart-shaped sunlight he is. You found the core of him, like a seed within a cherry, when you had your arms locked behind the nape of his neck and he led your hips into the rhythm of the sensual song. 

He loves children because he was loved right as a child himself. Wants to pass that on. Wants the kids to know that love exists, no matter what they’ve done. You broke down when he shared that with you and wished a place, like his organization provides, existed in your forlorn girlhood. 

Maybe you wouldn’t have been so broken. So prone to bad decisions, imbecility. So liable to the poisonous kisses of curses, to their tempting touches and their manipulative sounds of sweet nothing. 

Hobi had given you a promise ring right after he told you that there was to be a long waiting period for the baby. And when the time came and spring opened their buds of flowers, Hobi proposed to you. A grandiose diamond ring on your finger; plane tickets and more wons that you ever held in your hand, safely tucked in a white envelope. That’s how he announced it to you. And he didn’t get on his knee on the beach, where you glued your heart together. 

Not in Seoul, not on the island of Jeju. 

He proved his devotion to you and his irrevocable love for you amidst the surrounding mountains in Juwangsan national park by the Yongchu waterfall, five hours away from Seoul. Scraped his leisure pants because for a while you were paralyzed before you burst into tears and started running around, your first reaction of shock dispersing and turning into a holy euphoria you never experienced before. He laughed as did many people who were witness to the engagement, his hands that still held the ring box shaking as the audience clapped and cried along with you. Your white, linen dress billowed in the warm, spring-breathed wind, but you didn’t care much for it—because when you gained feeling in your muscles and your hunger to kiss him overpowered you, you stole and drew all of his patchouli-filled breath. 

You made it yours as he became yours, too, eternally. 

And when you gave him your yes, the mountains glorified yours and his love, exalted your unified souls, worshiped your hearts that beat for one another. Sang the praises of your unborn child.

You inhaled it, with gratitude and great importance, and it swirled within you even as you continued on your hike. Even as you visited the Daejeonsa Temple, where you spent the most time, dwelling in that thankfulness. You took in the beauty of the greenery, fresh air and mountains differently, more thoroughly and tremendously because you sensed they were there for you. Flaunted their earnest opulence and fervency for your happiness, for they knew you were looking back. 

Life gained feeling, too.

And Hobi wouldn’t stop fondling your ring while he held your hand. 

It’s what he does now as he presses the hotel room card against the device by the doorknob, a half month later. And it’s not lightness that is intertwined in his shoulders, but immense heaviness. Your flight was delayed by two hours and you waited another two hours for your luggage. Hobi didn't have to say a thing—it was written all over his countenance and figure, the weight of his perturbation. From his solemn look, tense features, lack of speech to his slouched shoulders, slightly shaking hands and deep breaths. 

You don’t want to poke the beast, but you do want to pet it—make it feel better. Because despite the misfortunes, you don’t consider them setbacks or ruination. You are here, with him, engaged and about to get filled with his baby. No troubles can take that away from you and they can try as hard as they want. 

You are about to carry his berry baby, conceived from the orchard he built in you, in the middle of Antalya, Turkey. 

Nothing could be better than this. 

Thinking about it, it paints a smile on your face. Hobi plants your suitcases on your king-sized bed, paying very little attention to the swan, made out of towels, sitting prettily in the middle of it, surrounded by rose petals, the ones that live beneath his skin so joyously and most comfortably. Feeling pity for him, because you know why he feels the way he does, you take his arms and slink through them, hugging his torso from behind, nuzzling your face in his oversized shirt-clad back that he wore for the first time in your presence. 

Hobi? Oversized clothes? Strangely, it works, even though you’re so used to his suits, his well-fitted classic clothes that accentuate his buff figure. 

He sighs, running his hands down your sides like he always does. You kiss his spine, without fear as you chose to wear zero makeup for the flight, but then he clasps your hands in his—right there in the center of his chest—and you swoon, tender and in love, appreciating the gesture, even though he’s done it many times before. 

It’ll never get old. 

“I can’t breathe in this room,” he murmurs, sighing a little louder this time around, and you furrow your brows, a wisp of worry curling in your gut. 

You’re about to let go and open the balcony doors to let some fresh air in, but Hobi acts faster. He swivels halfway, takes one step back with you, and turns on the air conditioning. Waits a little bit, stares at a fixed point on the ceiling—only to discover that it’s not working. 

Hobi punches the wall, startling you. 

“Hobi?” you call out his name, the wisp fading into a strong wind that moves your organs to and fro. 

He pinches his forehead, seething, and your instinct is to put a stop to it. You take his hands, notice they’re trembling, and the wind is knocked out of you. 

Trembling hands… What are they portraying? Anger? Anxiety? 

You sit him down on the bed, coming to stand in between his legs, and you cradle his face. Even the muscles in it quiver. Feebly, but they’re there. Pity constricts your heart. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, searching for his eyes, and when he meets you halfway, there’s unbelief that paints a murky landscape across his darkened pools. The brightness is dimmed. Your heart laments it. 

“Everything is going to shit. I wanted this to be perfect for you, but the air conditioning isn’t working. We waited for hours at the airport—”

You kiss his forehead, silencing him, and you linger there, even as you reassure him. “I’m so happy to be here with you that I couldn’t even give two shits about that.” 

The unbelief deepens and you figure he expected you to be as disappointed and as cranky as him. He doesn’t understand that the time you’d been graced with, the absence of your ex and the opportunity to be in a place your heart had quietly dreamed of conquers any obstacles that have tried to get in your way. 

You can’t be shaken. 

Not anymore. 

“We’re not at the airport anymore, we’re here. You can make a call to the reception and they will send a guy to fix it. It’s already perfect because I’m about to hear your English, first of all. And second of all, you’re gonna—” Your tone lowers to a whisper, “—breed me. Do unspeakable things to me here. Are we gonna fuck in the ocean? Oh, my god. I want that so bad. We can go to the beach at sunset with very few people around and you can nut in me. We’ll have a sea baby.”

This time, his sigh is dusted with relief and he slides your thighs over his, making you sit on his lap. The brightness in his eyes begins to flicker, shining through the murkiness, making its way back, and you’re happy to see it—relieved just the same. Though, you note something else, something new appearing in those pools. 

The moon. Night-caressed pearls. The waves of the turbulent, passionate sea at midnight as they wash out that terrible landscape. 

The same moon he carved into your thigh on your first date. The same moon that you hope will be lining your skin once he smothers you in his longing. 

“I’m so grateful to have you. I’m so grateful to have you as my wife. No one compares to you,” Hobi says, the moonlit pearls in his eyes wet as he’s overcome with emotion. He rests his head on your bosom, hugging you tight. “I love you, pup.” 

You bury your face in his silkily soft hair, reveling in the fresh undercut he got for this baby-making vacation. He purrs, happily, like a kitten, when you gently scrape your long acrylics upon that gritty surface. 

“I love you, too.” 

It’s time for dinner by the time you both come out of the shower, sharing one humongous towel. You push him down onto the bed and massage his back, helping him unwind on a deeper level—until his body is light and soaring, his eyes drowsy and lidded. Arm shading the lower half of his face, he studies the way you make love to your body by lathering it in shea butter lotion, then dressing it in a skin-tight, pale green, sleeveless dress with a slit in the back, its hem almost reaching your ankles. You put on some Aretha Franklin and open your clear makeup bag, reciprocating the eye contact in the mirror in front of the bed as you squirt foundation on your flushed cheeks. 

You didn’t realize he was watching you. 

“No panties, no bra?” he asks, his tongue dry as he licks his lips, still naked, glistening in the sundown from your lotion. Your eyes wander to his lower regions and find him hard. 

You smile, tapping in your foundation with your beauty blender. 

“I made the mistake of accidentally ordering extra small instead of small, so it’s tight on my body,” you explain your lack of underwear, your mouth ends quivering as he just keeps looking at you with bottomless devotion. “So I don’t want any panty lines or straps.” 

“I think that’s no mistake,” he says, his hand gripping his shaft for a moment before it relaxes, concealing his weakness for you. “I’m gonna rip it off of you with ease once your belly’s full. And I’m gonna make it fuller.” 

You bite your lip, blending your concealer, feral. “Careful, or no dinner for you.” 

Hobi chuckles, his body twitching, and you sink your teeth deeper into the pillow of your bottom lip. “Why?” 

Cream bronzer—you suck in your cheeks, making him suck in a breath. “If you keep talking, we’re skipping dinner and I’ll force you to make good on that promise.” 

He scoffs, the sound full of humor. “There’s no forcing when it comes to you.” 

You put on cream blush for nothing as your own natural blush resurfaces under that layer of makeup. “Your game will never not get to me, Hobi.” 

He hums in response, a tinge of embarrassment coloring that sound, and you coo, finishing your make-up with a thin eyeliner, mascara, brows and a brown lipstick. You brush out your hair, letting it cascade down your back. Put on some gold hoop earrings. Spray on your perfume. Crawl over Hobi’s lap to show yourself to him. 

“What do you think?” 

He fails to cup himself now that he’s turned on his back, with how long he is, and you pry his hand away, kissing his palm, marking it with that brown shade. 

“Beautiful,” he breathes out and your smile aches. “I’m gonna fight anyone who looks at you tonight.” 

You laugh, softly, leaning over to plant that same mark in the middle of his chest—just like he marked you all those months ago. “No need to fight for me. Are you gonna get dressed?” 

His shyness comes through, his flush reaching his neck and collarbones, and you salivate. 

“I’m hard,” he says, nearly pathetically, and you coo, endeared by him. Grasp him with your left hand, purposefully, and his eyes flick to your ring, moaning. “Oh, pup.” 

“What are we gonna do with you? I just put on my lipstick,” you whine, pouting feignedly, and Hobi whimpers, enveloping your hand with his fist, leading you to fuck him in a fast rhythm, the left over lotion on your palm making it slick and easy. 

“Just lick my tip and stroke me like that,” he croaks out and you feel your folds soak with your nectar. You were fine with him marinating your makeup, but this is better. “You don’t have to suck it. Just lick it with that tongue of yours, pup.” 

You swear, moaning, darting out your tongue and kitten licking the ridge of his head like he asked, twisting your wrist as much as he lets you in the deathly grasp he has over your hand. 

“That’s it, baby. You know how to do it. You’re my smart girl. My smart wife,” he praises, throwing his head back as he takes the pleasure you give him, going as far as hollowing out your cheeks on that sensitive part of him, despite the fact he told you that you didn’t have to. He groans, deeply, lifting his shoulders from the bed and gripping your hair, his hand trembling all over again. “Fuck, you make it so hard for me not to fuck your mouth.” 

You moan around him and he pulls you away from his cock and smashes his mouth against yours, kissing you so devastatingly ravagedly that you can’t breathe and you grow slack in his hold, sinking onto your knees on the floor. 

He holds your face as he lets you go, your foundation and lipstick smeared all over his chin, lips and cupid’s bow. You gasp at the sight, gulping. 

“I’m sorry, pup. You’re gonna have to redo your makeup. I couldn’t help it. You’re just so good,” he apologizes and you can see it on his face, how serious he is about it. “You deserve to be kissed like that. Hm, you’re such a good pup for me.”

You mewl, missing his lips already, and you quicken your pace around him. He lets you, matching you, and his sounds rise in volume. 

“I’m gonna come so quick for you, just because you look so good like this.” 

You hiccup, squeezing him. “Like what?” 

He hums, licking his lips, tasting your girlishness, and he grins, lopsidedly. “So pretty on your knees for your husband with your makeup ruined, knowing he did it because you sucked him so well.” 

The third person. You die—you die a beautiful death. 

“Oh, fuck, Daddy.” 

“Yeah, baby. I know. So good. Like always with you.” 

And you come back to life. 

You moan, giving him your all through your motions, sucking him, licking him, going even as far as taking his balls into your mouth, spreading your noises all over them, divulging how much you love that part of him. And he warns you before he comes. Doesn’t want to ruin your dress. And you watch as he spurts his cum all over his stomach while you milk it out of him—bedazzled, in love, fucked out and absolutely mesmerized.

And you rub his cum into his skin in the way you’ve noticed he likes to do on yours. Dig a grave for all the negative things he had to go through because of you and for you. You didn’t do that all those months ago, focused as you were on forgetting. But now that you’re healed from it and so is he, you dig that grave deep. Throw in his rightful anger, your ex, the painting. Sweep the soil back over it. And never look at it again. 

He thanks you for taking care of him. Tells you that it was all because of how beautiful you are. Cleans the little you left behind of his own nectar while you fix your makeup. Dresses himself in black pants and a shirt that makes you laugh so hard that your stomach hurts. 

A black and white shirt with a pattern of condoms. 

“What?” he asks, but laughs along with you. “We’re saying goodbye to condoms once and for all, pup.” 

You blush, terribly. He leaves the top buttons undone, letting all eyes see the way you marked him with your brown lipstick. 

And he gets stared down at dinner. Cares very little, as smitten as he is with you—can’t lay his eyes off you as you walk, even as you eat and drink your Turkish tea, as you sway your body to the live, foreign music while your cigarette smoke dances along with you. Can’t stop touching you either—has to have his hand on you under all circumstances. On your forearm, the back of your hand, your knee or your thigh under the table. 

Your belly, after all that food. 

“I’m gonna marry you,” he says after a long moment of balmy silence. The spring wind, drifting from the palm trees, chilly ever so faintly, brushes your hair away from your face, caressing so coolly your freshly washed body, and you’re obsessed with the feeling. With his reminder that he’s gonna marry you. With him. With the fact you’re here with him.

There’s no other place you’d rather be. 

“I know,” you intone, shyly, grinning, so terribly happy that its sparks detonate on your face, your thumb mindlessly playing with your ring. “I feel at home here.” 

He seems to be touched by that. But you didn’t understand the gravity of his words. 

Not until later. 

Two strong cocktails in, the night falls. The musicians gather their instruments to leave, but Hobi, with a mind of his own, pulls you up to your feet to dance with you to the song of that balmy, restful silence. And the ardent dance, filled with twirls and sways, catches the eye of one of the musicians. An elderly man, with ebony hair, mustache and tender wetness in his eyes, picks up his decades-loved violin from its case and starts playing a song unheard by the night. A song made, intimately and privately, from his own gentle, but kindled heart for you and Hobi. The fervid song, tied with the fire of a passion shared between a husband and wife, moves you to tears and once the man sees them, he weeps along with you. 

With your face pressed against Hobi’s, he barely leads you in the dance as you still ever so slightly to listen to that expression of love and marriage, paying your full attention to it. And if there ever were any forgotten crumbs of cranberries in your blood, the man’s mastery and Hobi’s touch smooth it out, completely. Order it, wordlessly, to swim out of your tear ducts. 

The man ends the song and you and Hobi clap for him, bowing in all respect and sincerity. He sends you a heartfelt kiss and a thumbs up Hobi’s way, pointing at his shirt and you wave him goodbye, laughing. 

No need for words. 

All was said. 

And Hobi senses it, a changed man. Because when you walk up to your hotel room and he sets you down on the bed—he doesn’t rip your dress away from you like he promised he would. No, he takes his time, revealing your skin little by little, kissing and licking every inch that opens for him. He’s that embodied passion and he unravels himself on your body, sucking on your perked nipple as he holds the rim of your dress beneath your breasts. Sighing, humming. Circling the tip of his tongue around that sensitive trigger. Your moans echo around the spaciousness of the room and he answers each and every one of them with his own. 

“Do you want it now? On your first night here?” he asks, pools whisked to yours, grazing your nub with his teeth. You cry out, spreading your legs as far as the tightness of your dress lets you while Hobi’s body compresses them down with his weight. 

You want it every night, every day until you have to return back to Korea. Want to be so full of his nectar that you’ll still feel it, even at home. 

“I want us to try every day,” you say, stroking his hair, shuddering as he rolls his tongue up and down on that nipple of yours, nuzzling his face in your breast as he sucks it. Makes your brain malfunction a little bit. “Do you think they sell pregnancy tests in that little shop? I should’ve brought some from home.”

Hobi grows serious, popping your nub free. His puffy lips search for yours, enveloping them in a deep kiss. And he spreads tiny kisses on your cheek and jaw as he responds. “We can say fuck it and take that test when we get home.” 

The same seriousness closes down upon you. “What if we fail? What if there’s something wrong with me that I don’t know about?” 

He cradles your face, his thumb fondling your skin, your black eyelashes, sturdier than they usually are due to your mascara. “You’re young, you’re healthy. You have nothing to worry about. I’m older. What if my swimmers are blind, hm?” 

Your eyes wet at the thought, but a sweet reminder seizes you—the softness you saw wrapping around him when he told you about the renewal of his work project, the amount of poor children without parents or homes that have won over his heart. And your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue. 

“There’s always the children from your work. We can adopt. As many as we want.” 

Hobi looks into your eyes, deeply, for a long time. And you don’t catch the drenching of his pools, nor the tender glint, the wetness of the pearls. No, you catch a single rivulet trickling down on each of his cheeks, plopping down onto your chest. The hard sucking in of his breath due to that softness swathing him all over again. The tremble of his lip. The petting of his hand over your hair as he exudes gratefulness. 

“I love you, you know that?” he whimpers and you burst, your own tears dripping down the sides of your face as you take him in. The raw, compassionate and humane version of him that only few, selected people are allowed to see. You, his mom, his dad, his sister and… little Luna. And you sob, your whole body warm from the amount of love that boils in you for him. “You’re my good little pup. I love you so much.” 

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice broken owing to the intensity of your feelings. Hobi kisses your neck and your hand brushes down his back, scattered with myriads of condoms. Try to feel for his wings. Want them as sensitive as his heart. “Your swimmers aren’t blind. They have 20/20 vision.” 

Your little joke causes him to chuckle, adorably, and he makes that sound travel down your throat as soon as he kisses you again. Slowly, carefully—as if engraving the shape and the feel of your lips deeply into his brain, into his system that he will give to you. You want more of him, the intangible things as well as the tangible ones. All of him, all that put his being together; all that helps him get up in the morning and lay his head down at night. 

And it invigorates you, the knowledge that you will get just that—once he fills you up with his nectar and his swimmers find you, perfectly. Yours and his berry baby will grow amidst the orchard he will continue to take care of; and you will have him. 

Eternally. 

Beyond death. Beyond the end of time. 

You will have him—and you will have a little him as well. 

“I want you,” you whisper onto his lips, perking up your breasts for him by squishing them together and he sees you, sees what you’re doing and he licks your nipple again, both of them at the same time in fact, torturously slowly, humming. “And I want a little you.” 

Lifting his head to kiss you, nastily, he groans. The smack of yours and his mouth, the ridding of your dress—still slow, still sensual. He studies your body for a moment, shuddering, full of longing for him and his nectar, ready for him with the way it’s glistening in sweat and arousal. And he sighs, differently this time. 

The sound is coated with as much longing as your body is. 

You love being looked at by him; love the knowledge that he’s looking at something that’s his. Always been his to transform, make new, clean and heal. Always been his to love. 

And he kisses his pathway down your tummy as if he thought about the same thing, his hands following every inch of your skin, fondling the places he kissed, licked and sucked. Not hard enough to create a mark, but lovingly enough to moisten you even more, to make your heart swell—and something else, too. 

He stops at your navel. Squishes the lower belly fat, biting it as he coos—and you can feel how much he loves that part of you; always has. Because of that, there’s no insecurity tightening your lungs or worrying your brain. Only balminess, the sound of cicadas, the dance of the palm trees as the wind blows through it, the faraway sea sloshing upon shore and his noises caked with yearning—for you, for the baby. 

“Our baby is going to live right here,” he says, as if he was coming to terms with it, now that he’s about to make it happen, and you soften, running your hand through the tufts of his windswept hair. “It’s going to grow and feel our love. Feel how much I love him or her. How much you do.” 

You nod, a liquified softness. “Do you want a boy or a girl?” 

He gazes at you through his lashes and butterflies zap your stomach. “I want a baby that looks like you.” 

Your heart, too. 

“So, a girl?” 

He rubs his face in your tummy, breathing evenly against it. “Even a boy can have your features. Your hair. Your hands.” He takes it, the one closest to him, and drifts his fingers through yours. “I want to hold their hand and know I’m holding yours. And I want to give them the love I have for you.” 

A film flashes through your mind. A little boy, sitting on a sofa next to resting Hobi, watching TV while his Daddy absentmindedly plays with his small fingers, kissing them, biting them playfully to make him growl in that adorable way. The same little boy growing into a young man, having been watered by the love Hobi has for you and the new, fatherly love he gained for him. One that does not cease even as he’s older. 

A boy, a man loved by his Father—ceaselessly. 

Something you never had, but your child will. 

You don’t realize you’re crying until Hobi wipes your tears away. Your heart thumps so rapidly against your chest that you believe it could poke through the flesh. 

And you fall for him, all over again. 

“That’s the most beautiful thing you ever said to me,” you whisper, high on your heightened feelings for him, high on him. “Besides, ‘will you marry me?’”

Hobi smiles. Moves you so your head reclines on the pillows, knocking towel swan off the bed, making you giggle. And he sits on his legs, clutching your waist, thumb rubbing circles on your tummy, squished and overspilling in your position as you wrap your own legs around him. 

Comfortable, safe, elated. 

“Two days from now, I want you to wear that dress I bought you,” he says, his smile blossoming wider and your lips mimic the same movement for some reason, despite the fact your brows furrow in confusion. 

“What dress?” 

He slides his hands up your highs. “The white one. The one I told you I was gonna marry you in.” 

A soft gasp leaves your lips and a mist of tears thicken in your waterline, understanding what he’s saying. “Are we—?” 

“Yes, pup.” A stream, not a rivulet, cascades down his cheeks and you break, you break beautifully and happily. “We’re getting married in two days. I prepared everything. Your parents and mine are flying in. I paid for their plane tickets. A small wedding with the closest. My sister slapped me when I offered to pay for hers—”

An alarm rings loudly in your sternum and you don’t think before you voice it out. Hasty in a way you don’t like, but it’s due to a certain fear that you feel expanding throughout your body. 

“What did my Dad say?” 

Hobi’s smile doesn’t fade and it spurs a fragment of ease to shoot down your form. 

“Your Dad gave me his blessing.” 

A brand new shrub begins to grow in your orchard. The final one. A shrub of goji berries, healing, beneficial to your Father complex, the very means that will treat your scar caused from it, rejuvenate the skin that bears his ignorance, lack of love, care and attention. 

And you can’t breathe.

Hobi lays the front of his body against yours, propping his chin against your chest, holding the side of your face in his hand, tracing your shock and unbelief with his thumb. 

“He looked at me as if he wanted to kill me, but once he heard that I mean well with you and that I make good money at my job—actually, once he heard that I work with children, his whole demeanor changed—”

“He loves children,” you blurt out, your vision unfocusing. “He just doesn’t love me because I grew up. It’s some kind of block in his body, I don’t know.” 

Hobi pauses for a moment, thinking about your words, his thumb now tracing your lost eyes—your eyelids, your eyelashes. 

Your Father played with you when you were a little girl. Took you on walks around the city. Bought you McDonalds. Taught you how to count money when you were struggling, unsure if you had enough from the paper Wons he gave you. But once the sadness of your girlhood absorbed your life, his presence in it shifted and moved away. 

And never returned. 

“He does love you, he just doesn’t know how to express it. That’s what I sensed,” he whispers, his hand descending to your neck, and you wonder if he feels the twigs of those goji berries underneath that skin—that quickly they grow. “If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t have listened to a word I said. He wouldn’t have asked me if there’s anything I needed from him in terms of the wedding. And he wasn’t mad about the fact that it would be non-traditional and in Turkey, though your mom insisted she’d wear a hanbok anyways.” 

You’re so overwhelmed that you can’t speak, the notion that your Father always knew you strayed away from your heritage and preferred the West sneaking into your heart. He accepted it; and he accepted Hobi. 

You reach within yourself, pluck a goji berry and feed it to the emptiness that lived within you for too long. And you do it again and again—until there’s no hollowness that eats at your insides. 

You’re whole.

“Thank you for telling me,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles down his cheek and Hobi leans into your touch like he always does. “That healed me. I can’t wait to marry you.” 

Hobi mirrors your softness and kisses you with it. And it’s now that the dip of the scar in your skin replenishes—through each and every moment of his mouth against yours and through his shifting to the place between your legs once you coyly ask for him there. He eats you as if he were starving, and it has great meaning to you—the fact it’s someone you love that is consuming you and not your emptiness anymore. Your feet slide across the pattern of the condoms on his back and it quickens your orgasm in the middle of his sucking and finger-fucking, all owing to the fact that Hobi made order in your life; healed your Father’s complex and now is preparing you to impregnate you, only to marry you two days later. 

You come so hard that you don’t sprinkle him, but drench him whole, your nectar painting him in glimmering light that becomes holy in the moonlight that streaks through the balcony. 

He heaves, ferally, kissing your clit over and over again—so hard that he’s essentially sucking it and you cry out in overstimulation. 

“Taught you how to squirt, didn’t I?” he growls, hovering above you as the drops of your nectar pitter-patter on your chest and within your shyness due to his words, you’re ready for him. 

He did teach you that. Since the fateful day of his work phone call, before and during which you edged yourself so painfully that when he pleasured you with your vibrator, you exploded just the same, you aren’t able to have dry orgasms. He has triggered something within you, using his businessman voice and respect, that rains for him and it has changed your sexuality once and for all.

“You did,” you try because of your shyness, your hands instinctively popping the button of his pants open, and Hobi hums, wiping his face clean and pushing his soaked fingers inside your mouth. 

You didn’t expect it and the loud moan that slips out of your throat comes as a surprise to you. Hobi’s length twitches beneath your hands and twitches again when you suck on his fingers, just as loudly. 

“I love it when you squirt for me, but pray to God, pup, that you don’t squirt around my dick because I’m not pulling out, you hear me?” he rasps, his voice deep and solemn, causing your walls to clench tightly and your heat to reach a boiling temperature. Your hand, mindlessly, slinks to your pussy to rub your clit and he tips his head, noticing it. “Move your hand.” You do, your heart bouncing in your ribcage. Hobi begins to thumb your clit and you writhe your body against the mattress, following each circle with your hips, the pleasure faint but so good. “Do you think you can hold your orgasms for me once I fuck you, hm?” 

You whimper, regarding the idea impossible, knowing how well he does it. Impossible and rapturous. “No.” 

He chuckles. Stops his circles. Lets you use his thumb. “I’ll make you, then. I can stop anytime.” 

You roll your eyes back, his dominance-tinged words better than the stimulation of your clit. “Can you?” you bite back, playfully, your shyness vanishing. 

Hobi bites his lip, intoxicated by your new confidence. Pins your hands above your head, leaning his weight on them. Brushes his lips against yours. “Don’t go bratty on me now. Don’t do it to the baby.” 

You choke out a curse and Hobi digs his half-moons into your forearms. The moonlight anoints them, purifying the atmosphere. 

“I’ll be good for the baby,” you whisper, curling your hips to feel more of his manhood, eager for it. “And good for you.”

Hobi growls, kissing the skin beneath your jawline just once. “A good what?” 

You know what he wants you to say and your eagerness lengthens. “A good pup.” 

Shifting so he can hold both of your wrists in his singular fist, he glides the tip of his cock along your feminine flesh—up and down, up and down. 

“That’s it. A good Mommy for the baby and a good pup for me.” 

He buries himself in your heat and it’s the breaking of the curse upon your life, for the intention is there. The final installment to your healing of your Father’s complex because you’re not a little girl anymore, walking in the withering forest of your saddened girlhood. 

You’re a tender woman and you’re being made love to. 

There’s respect to the languid and dionysian movements of his love, no matter the hardness he uses. A breath is choked out of you and he inhales it, letting your hands free to cradle your neck, pressing his forehead against yours as he moans. Your mouth is parted and Hobi plays with your tongue without closing down his lips on yours, which causes you to mark your nails down his lats. Goosebumps decorate his skin at the feeling and he speeds up, beckoning out your whiny noises as you take it. 

His cock, the healing, the respect, the love. 

“I love you,” he murmurs, consuming your noises as soon as he kisses you. Doesn’t stop ramming into you. “I love you, my pup. You’re my life.” 

You cry out and he rips the coil of your orgasm by filling you to the hilt and lingering there, stimulating your clit by giving you fast, little strokes that makes his mound rub against it. And the orgasm overtakes you, your whole body limp and delighted as the heavenly pressure courses down every nerve ending, spreading that healing, respect and love, sealing it there. 

“God, that was beautiful,” Hobi comments, stunned by the explosion of your pleasure, and he begins to give you long, hard strokes that empty out your brain and try to push out your sudden guilt for coming when he wanted you to hold back your orgasm. 

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“No, pup,” he groans, the muscles around his eyes tightening as he pants. “You’re good. Just keep coming for me. I was only kidding, pup.” 

He takes your nipple in his mouth, his back strong and monumental and you sink your nails into it, marking him with the same half-moons, blushing, joyful. Hobi returns to your neck, your jaw and lips and you whine at the principle of him returning. 

The feeling of it is so enormous that you come again. 

“Yes, pup, that’s it. Come for your Daddy. So pretty, yes. I’m so close. I’m right there with you. Gonna make you a Mommy.” 

The words that are true, at last. Not a pretense. 

And then he’s fast, fucking you into the bed. Changing his mind at the last minute and lifting your hips into the air, slamming into you so hard that you have to hold onto his forearms, scattering your half-moons there and you take it all, ravenous, yet tender as you are. The squelching noises, his growls melting into soft mewls as you squeeze around him and it’s him who can’t take it. 

Who can’t take the distance. 

Who places your hips back down and eats your mouth, plunging his tongue inside while keeping up his rhythm. Never once faltering, nor wavering. He kneads your breast, sucks on your lip, bites it. Holds you by your throat, pushing his thumb inside your parted mouth and you have a feeling, amidst the haziness of your mind, that’s your trigger. One of them, at least. 

“Suck on it.” 

You clamp down on his length, obeying. Your orgasm inches closer, your fourth one of the night. 

“Good pup,” he husks, closing his eyes for a split second, slowing down, rolling motions. “Are you ready to become a Mommy for our baby? Daddy’s so close.” 

The sound that leaves you is of such a desperate kind that he grunts, delighting in it. Buries himself inside you to the hilt, stopping there, giving you tiny strokes that scramble your brain, plays with the haziness. Your arousal and your yearning is so raging and feverish that the pain of his tip osculating your cervix feels divine. And all you can think about is how it’s going to widen over time for yours and his baby. 

“Yes, yes, please. I want it. Give it to me, please, please, please,” you beg, your lungs and your pulse quickening, muscles taut and Hobi moans in a way you’ve never heard him before. 

The longing at its peak, sensitive, delicate and frail—yet he still remains as strong and monumental as he is. His Achilles’ heel has been struck and he begins to twitch inside you. 

“Oh my God, pup, I’m coming so hard for you.” Long strokes, whimpers. “Are you gonna take it like the good little wife you are?” The ultimate hard thrust—the blooming of his longing, your agreement, and it’s happening. He comes. “Fuck, fuck, yes. It’s all yours. It’s all yours, pup.”

He paints you anew with the warmth of his nectar, fucking it deeply into you. And the title you utter is not one construed out of your lack, but it’s a crowning of his new role. 

“Daddy.”

The final breaking of the curse. 

The conclusion. 

He continues to ram into you, softly, his thumb finding your clit—and it’s over. 

Everything. 

You step into a new life with him while you’re still connected and he keeps coming for you, his swimmers antsy and desirous to find your egg. And crossing the threshold, you come—devastatingly intensely, your body trembling and his mirroring the same shakes while he gives you the last of his all and a kiss that lasts a lifetime. 

A clean slate, a clean heart, a clean body. 

A clean life.

An orchard, brimming with fullness and ripeness. 

Ready for your berry baby. 

He looks at you for a long time, then, grinning so widely that you can sense the entirety of his joyful heart in it. His eyes wet and his smile softens as the gravity of what just happened washes over him. You feel the same process collapsing over you, splendidly, and you think that you and him must have become one. 

“We did it,” he whispers, a tear pouring down his cheek and another one following. 

You nod, your cheeks stained with the same tears. “We did it.” 

And the newness of your life and being feels natural—just as though it has been there the whole time. 

On the day of your wedding, bright early in the morning—after Hobi woke you up with his sensual The Weeknd playlist and ate you out so calamitously that you had to give it back to him by riding him into oblivion—you sit down for breakfast and discover something about him that almost makes you call it off. 

Hobi put strawberry jam on his butter toast with scrambled eggs. 

The Turkish sun envelops him bewitchingly, makes his tanned skin glow in its light as he enjoys, provocatively, every bite of his strange breakfast, focusing all of his attention on it. His eyes never leave it and his mouth smacks so loudly that it as irks you as it makes you laugh. 

Your unbelief towards that combination is so strong that it took you some time before you could speak up. 

“What the fuck, Hobi?” 

His eyes flick in your direction, innocently, cheeks full and squirrel-like, layered in sweat. His hands hold a half of the toast, despite the fact you and him just sat down. Does he really enjoy it that much? He inhaled it. 

“What?” he asks, mouth full, and you chuckle. 

“Jam and eggs?” 

He swallows, making a sound that divulges just how much he loved that bite. “Pup, it’s so good.” 

You widen your eyes. “I’m not marrying you today,” you say, but you don’t mean it. You’d marry him even if he forced that abnormal toast down your throat. 

He’s not one bit perplexed by your sentence. Stares you down as he runs his tongue over his teeth, mouth closed. “Be quiet.” 

Heat comes apart in your body and you blush, squeezing your thighs together under the table.

“How could a combination of eggs and jam be good?” you ask, standing your ground, despite your feelings. 

Hobi smiles. “One time I accidentally put sugar instead of salt on my scrambled eggs and it changed my life forever.” 

Your eyes might pop out of your sockets. “What?” 

He laughs, extends his hand towards your face. The sweetened, yet buttery smell of the toast hits your nostrils and your repulsion towards it dissolves. “Try it.” 

You don’t trust it, though. “I’d rather die.” 

He tightens his lips. “Be quiet and take a bite.” 

Taken aback, your instincts win and you don’t realize your head is leaning towards the toast until your teeth sink into the crunchy tastiness. You take a small bite and thoroughly chew, the mixture of sweetness and a little bit of saltiness, wrapped around the crispiness of the toast and the slight mushiness of the eggs creating something metaphysical in your mouth. 

Hobi watches you with a proud, lopsided grin. Knows you like it before you say it. 

“What the fuck?” 

He bursts into laughter and lets you have it, places it on your plate before devouring his second one, your liking for it elevating his. 

And you devour it just the same. 

“Life changing, isn’t it?” he intones, smacking his mouth in all the pleasure of the world. “Expect this kind of breakfast every morning when we get home. After I eat out your little pussy.” 

You choke on it and hide your feverish face in your hands, your stomach doing somersaults. “Oh my God, Hobi.” 

He laughs again, tenderly, and the sound travels all the way to Cappadocia, where he marries you at sundown. 

On the rooftop of a cave hotel, overlooking an immeasurable amount of kaleidoscopic hot air balloons that magnetically travel to the heat of the orange sun, the mountains and volcanic peaks darkened by its overpowering magnificence. It encourages the sleepy walk of camels and tightens the hearts of the witnesses below and the hearts of your parents, parents in law and Hobi’s sister. 

The simple dress Hobi bought you ripples in the compassionate late afternoon wind. Silky, pearlescent like his eyes in a certain light, caressing your tanned skin. So very akin to the one you wore on your first date with him, but longer, sleek, homeric in its significance.

And he matches you, all white, in his tuxedo, a stark contrast against his bronze skin and black hair, a wispy strand softly being blown sideways from his forehead by the wind. He holds his tears back in the same way he holds your hand—with all his might. And you do the same. 

You share your vows. 

He shares his, intertwined with the first poem you recited for him. 

“I’ll carry your heart with me ‘til my last day on this Earth and I will fear no fate because you are my fate.” 

Through your tears, you can see the way he’s stifling his habit of saying your pet name. And when he catches your quivering smile, he breaks into more tears. 

And when you proclaim that you do take him as your husband and when he proclaims that he takes you as his wife, your tears conjoin as do your souls in a kiss that makes the mountains quake. The heat of the Turkish sun perpetuates the act of love. 

The audience cheers. 

Your Father weeps.

And you believe no sadness, no ruination will ever come close to you again. 

You and Hobi celebrate. Dance throughout the night to foreign, passionate music that your heart seems to know. Fly in a hot air balloon, where he gets drunk and kisses you until your lips get numb. 

Almost throws up all the dark liquor he drank once he sees how high from the ground he is. 

And you can’t stop laughing. 

Not as he takes you to the Valley of Love the next day to look at penis-shaped rock formations that nature apparently formed out of the blue. 

Not as you give birth nine months later and he makes his sound effects as you push out his child. 

A baby boy that has your hair, your hands, your mouth and your chin—and a whole lot of Hobi’s pearlescent eyes and slender nose. A delectable, heavenly concoction. 

And certainly not as you take the five-year old boy to the Yongchu waterfall, where his Father proposed to you, and he starts sputtering out uncontrollable giggles when Hobi tells him that you ran around when he popped the question and precisely, with utmost detail, shows him how. 

On your way back, when little Hyeonwol’s legs hurt and drowsiness weighs him down, he surveys the mountain peak, transfixed by it. You and Hobi notice it at the same time and share a look that could never be described through any poetry, through any beauty of words, not even the ordinary kind. 

And it’s automatic, a silent, collective and simultaneous decision to break Hyeonwol’s spell by kissing each of his cheek. 

The dream came true. 

All dreams have, even those undreamed. 

And you believe that even as you grow old with Hobi, you’ll never stop laughing. 

You’ll never stop eating strawberry jam toasts with scrambled eggs with him. 

With Hyeonwol, too. 

And you'll never stop feeding the berry boy the fruits from the orchard that Hobi continues to take care of within you.

HYEONWOL — HYE-ON-WOL 

賢월

Meaning: worthy moon 

This name is given to a worthy person who is as precious as the moon. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one | READ part two | READ part three | READ part four | READ part five

[yoonia]

— Sunset Glow (teaser) —

— title: Sunset Glow — Spotless Minds: a bonus scene | pairings: Jung Hoseok x female reader| genre:Past Lovers!AU, Lawyer!Hoseok, Artist!reader, New Beginning, inspired by Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Minds (yes, the movie)

— summary | Summer getaways have always been your favourite escape. A chance for you to step away from real life and all of its troubles, away from the hectic hours that you must endure every day, and you have always enjoyed the precious time that you get to spend with your lover. But as you accidentally stumble upon a reminder of the past that you have been slowly walking away from, you finally get to see Hoseok losing his resolve for the first time. It is now your turn to become his rock, and help remind him the reason why he has always been yours

— full fic ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature;involves conversations about past relationship, mentions of mental health issues, memory loss, memory alteration, multiple smut scenes, explicit sex scenes, including: stripping, groping, making out, clothed sex, fingering, breast play, nipple play, clit play, neck kissing, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, nudity, public sex, sex on a beach, marking, rough sex, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare.

— original: Spotless Minds by @yoonia | story masterlist

— word count: 104 words | full fic word count: app. 10k words

“Are you okay?” is what you keep asking him every time you notice him growing silent, getting too deep in his thoughts—in his moment of reflection.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay when I have you here with me?” is what he would always say in return. 

A part of what he says to you is the truth. Yet he always feels like a liar. Because he is no longer sure if he is truly doing all right. And he has no idea how much longer he can lie to himself—to you—until the truth reveals itself right in front of his eyes. 

Note: If you’re interested to be tagged in the full fic, leave your name/url in the replies down below!

— ©Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind, translations, unsanctioned adaptations are not allowed.

[greenxgloss]

Hello hello!! Im enjoying the way you write so much😭💓

Can I request something where Yoongi is in the mafia and decides to marry his childhood best friend (their families act civil but are enemies) to save her from an arranged marriage.🥹

Against the Oath

Of course my love i got you! When i originally started the rough draft for this it ended up being like 8k words and I felt like a lot of it was filler so I've condensed it down to this BUTTT if you would like to read the 'authors cut' *wink wonk* I could post that as well. ANYWAY I hope this was up to your standards I'm finding a lot of these requests to be really intimidating lol but ig that's how you improve your writing right? thank you for your request :)) Summary: As the heir to your parents' position in the gang you were raised in, you were forced into an arranged marriage. However, when your forbidden best friend uncovered the dark secrets of your intended suitor, he stepped in to take his place. Word Count: 4.2k Themes: MafiaLeader!Yoongi x GangHeiress!Reader, Near arranged marriage, Angst, Fluff, Controlling parents, Best friends to lovers

“Yeah, she’s inviting him over tomorrow.” 

You were leaned back on your pillow, propped up against your head board, sighing and pinching your nose bridge as you caught your best friend up on how your mom has found a ‘suitor’ for you. An arranged marriage. 

“I- will help you figure this out, don’t worry. I'm sure it'll be fine. And if not, we can't run away to a deserted island.” Yoongi smiled, hoping he could ease your anxiety even just a little, and you did giggle momentarily, but the pressure and sense of impending doom was much stronger than your best mate's words of affirmation right now. 

You sighed dramatically. “I can't believe this is happening. Like- now?” you whined, kicking your legs about like a child and slumping down on your pillows. 

“Listen I gotta go, but you'll be okay. Just get through the dinner and call me with updates afterward.” Yoongi rushed his words. “Yeah, I'll call you tomorrow night, so stay up,” you teased, knowing Yoongi was usually tuckered out by 9:30 if he wasn't busy.

When the dinner came round, you found yourself super zoned out at the dinner table, the buzzing sound of muffled kitchen appliances echoing in your mind subconsciously while the sound of your parents talking to Lee Ho drowned out, almost mimicking closely to how the adults sound in Peanuts the movie. You might be Snoopy now.

Your father was on the topic of golf at this point while your mother had stepped out just a moment ago to go check on the food and then go to the restroom.

“I know you'll love to see my collection of putters,” your dad gushed, face red with nerves as he rushed out of the dining room, leaving you and Lee Ho alone.

Lee Ho was tall, charming, smelled good and apparently would be studying to become a surgeon after his military service in the coming year. You picked up on these bullet pointed details in moments that your mind came to focus. 

To you, he sounded boring. Having been raised around gang life, no matter how much your parents tried to keep you away from it in your developmental ages, you still grew comfortable with the instability. You don’t feel you could click or relate to stability, and Lee Ho seemed to be the picture of it.

“You’re not interested at all, are you?” Lee Ho broke the silence, his hands awkwardly folded over his lap like he wasn't sure where to put them. He must really be nervous. Thats when the guilt washed over you.

“Uh, no sorry,” spoken like a true heiress. “No I'm sorry. Women are supposed to agree on this- procedure along with the men being arranged.” he sighed, looking down at his lap and smoothing his slacks. You nodded. He seemed unsure of his vocabulary, like this conversation was a topic he’d never touched out loud before. 

“I- we could still get married,” he suggested bashfully, and your eyebrows rose against your will. “What?” you asked in nearly a gasp. He chuckled. “Well, your mom seems relentless about finding you a partner as soon as humanly possible. How do you know the next guy won't be someone who argues with their knuckles?” he pursed his lips, lettingout  a sharp noise similar to a balloon. The tension in how you breathed released itself once you welcomed thoughts that could cause you to panic.

“I dont mind if us being married is purely on paper.” Lee Ho chewed on the inside of his cheek as he searched your face for the slightest hint of what you were thinking. 

Although getting married this young and fast without an ounce of love was crazy to you, and you could never really understand it, your mother would never understand because she needed to put the gang first right now. It was one of those things that if you thought about it too muc,h it would make you react and act out of hurt.

You exhaled sharply and looked up at him. “Okay. it- doesnt sound so bad,” you spoke in a clearly reluctant tone, hopping and praying quietly in your mind that this wasn't an impulsive decision you’d made in a panic that was shutting your logic out. 

Lee Ho smiled softly and nodded slightly. Your parents walked back in just as your conversation ended. “Here are my beauties.” Your dad smiled, with his golf bag falling off his shoulder.

The rest of the dinner went smoothly, and just before Lee Ho left you managed to get his number. 

“So? What do you think?” your mother asked, joining you in the common room after sending Lee Ho off. You just nodded, and that was enough for your mother to understand. “Really?!” she exclaimed, grabbing your hands and clasping them to her lips to kiss. “Yeah.” your tone flat. 

Your mother ran off to her study, squealing causing you to have your own giggle fit before getting up to grab snacks from the kitchen. 

Your kitchen staff had gone home for the night so you were free to have your pick of the pantry. As you scanned the wall of snacks, you brought out your phone and gave Yoongi a call, the time only being 9 pm.

“Salt and vinegar or caramel popcorn?” you asked when the ringing stopped, looking the two options over. “Caramel.” Yoongi's smile was audible and it was equally as contagious as the visual.

You picked the bag and walked up to your room while Yoongi asked his own question. “So how’d it go?” he asked, shifting in his bed being heard on his end. Worry bubbled up in your stomach when you realized the outcome of tonight was definitely not what Yoongi thought he’d hear.

Your stomach twisted. “Im- getting married,” you spoke, a new anxiety bubbling in your stomach. “They got to you, huh?” he chuckled. You sighed softly. “Yoongi,” you whined, sitting in your bed and opening the bag of popcorn.

“I guess the only way I can explain it is I was able to talk about what I wanted in the marriage, and not only did he listen, her suggested other freedoms. He suggest the marriage be strictly paper.” you rambled before stuffing your mouth with popcorn, anxiously anticipating his words.

“That sounds safe and healthy to you?” he asked. Yoongi didn't really have to say anything else, you were saying it out loud for yourself for the first time, and you heard exactly why he’d say such a thing. You sighed in defeat as if this was your only option and sure in your family it is the only way but in real life as an adult you have so many choices but you had no idea what would happen if you defied your mother.

“It's all I got.” You bit your lip then licked your fingers clean and placing the bag of popcorn on your nightstand. “I dont like that. You deserve way more than to settle.” he spoke softly almost whining, his emotions audible. “Its quite literally my only option.”

“Wanna sneak over?”

You giggled and stood off your bed.

Sneaking around with your forbidden bestfriend at your grown age was not ideal but you couldnt really complain considering your families were barely on amicable terms and, you know, forbidden.

Yoongi helped you into his window. Avoiding the goons keeping guard around the mansion was always very fun, it helped you exercise your stealth and agility. 

"Have your parents looked into this guy?" Yoongi asked, his voice laced with something unreadable—concern, maybe, or skepticism. He'd been quiet for most of the conversation, listening intently as you spoke about your so-called fiancé. But now, his sharp gaze was fixed on you, his fingers idly tapping against his thigh.

You blinked, considering his question. "Not that I know of," you admitted with a small shrug. "But I doubt that’s something they’d skip over."

Still, as the words left your mouth, a sliver of doubt crept into your mind. Your parents were powerful, calculating. They had connections that could dig up anyone’s past in an instant. But did that mean they actually had? Or were they so blinded by what this marriage could offer them that they hadn’t bothered?

Yoongi hummed, nodding slightly, but his expression remained unreadable.

The two of you were sprawled across his bed, your back against the headboard while he lay stretched out at your feet, leaning back on his elbows. It was comfortable—familiar. You'd spent countless nights like this, talking about anything and everything, but tonight, there was a weight to the conversation that neither of you could ignore.

He shifted slightly, tilting his head as he studied you. "Doesn't that bother you?"

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

He let out a soft sigh, sitting up a little. "That they didn’t tell you anything. That they just expect you to go along with it."

You swallowed, looking away. "It’s not like I have a choice."

Yoongi scoffed at that, running a hand through his dark hair. "There’s always a choice, Love." The nickname rolled off his tongue with something close to bitterness, but there was an edge of playfulness too, like he was trying to keep things light despite the heaviness of the situation.

You sighed, rubbing your hands over your face. "What am I supposed to do, Yoongi? Say no? I’ve already tried that."

He hesitated, as if weighing his words, then spoke again. “It’s strange to me—how easy it was.” His voice was steady, but you could hear the slight hitch in his breath at the end.

“I know,” you murmured, pausing as you struggled to find the right words. “I… I can’t explain it. Lee Ho just—he—” You shrugged, frustration lacing your sigh. “I don’t know how to put it into words.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he asked, “Did you ever stop to think about what this means for us? What if we won’t be able to see each other anymore?”

His voice was cold—calculated, even—but you knew him too well. Beneath the carefully measured tone, there was something else. Hurt. Fear.

Your stomach twisted. In truth, you hadn’t thought about that at all. You had been so caught up in your own whirlwind of decisions, obligations, and consequences that the idea of losing Yoongi—your closest, and perhaps only, real friend—hadn’t even crossed your mind. And now, the realization hit you like ice in your veins.

“No,” you admitted, your voice hollow.

Yoongi clenched his jaw, chewing on the inside of his cheek. The weight of your oversight sat heavy between you, an unspoken betrayal. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes now, not when you knew exactly what you’d find there.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, eyes fixed on the floor, on the fabric of his socks—anywhere but his face. "you know what, I'm- we arent teenagers anymore. you don't have to consider me everytime you make a life changing decision." he nodded and the hurt became more and more evident, breaking your heart more and more. 

"oh yoongi im sorry, i should have considered you. it was so tense I wasn't thinking at all. You're like- my whole life." you brought your hands to your face and rubber your eyes before sitting up and turning your body to face your best friend. yoongi chuckled in response. "shut up its not that serious." he smiled.

"you're my life too." he rolled his eyes, speaking in a whisper.

After a few months of hectic wedding planning with your mother and spending more time with Lee Ho it was time for the wedding.

The night before the ceremony arrives, and you find yourself sinking into the luxurious soaking tub of your lavish suite, the warm water enveloping you. Just as you begin to relax, the sudden ringing of your phone pierces the quiet, startling you. Your heart leaps in your chest as you gasp, but you quickly rise from the tub, reaching for your phone on the counter.

“Yeah?” you spoke into the phone, trying your hardest not to crack the mask you had spread on your face. “Are you at the hotel right now?” Yoongi asked, the sounds of revving cars, beeping and loud streets coming through the line. “Aw ya coning?” you spoke nearly incoherently in a desperate attempt to keep your mask in one piece. Yoongi chuckled. “Yeah text me your room number and ill be there.”

You scrambled out of the tub to get dressed, your hair still damp and smelling of raspberry. 

“Open up!” yoongi knocked on the door while you stumbled around getting your jeans on. 

“I hired a private investigator.” he blurted once you had the door wide open. You were too stunned to speak but he pushed right through you. “Lee Ho; hes been lying. Hes part of a small gang from a small city. I found out they’ve been trying to recruit.” Yoongi rambled on as you followed him to the bed where he sprawled the photos over your bed accompanying files and screenshots of messages and emails.

Your blood ran cold, you stood frozen just behind Yoongi, scanning the photos.

Suddenly you remembered everytime Lee ho stepped away at awkward times to have secret phone calls or when he’d disappear in the middle of events and lied about where he was. You hadnt given it much thought but it all made sense now. 

“What do I even do with this?” you asked, shaking your head. Your hands were steady, but you could feel the tight knot forming in your stomach. “If I bring this to my mom, she’ll just demand to know how I found out.” And then what? She’d tear through the city to figure out who had leaked this information, and if she found out it was Yoongi…

Your grip on the edge of the mattress tightened.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, as if he had already thought this through. “We could get married,” he said casually, reaching forward to push the phone out of your line of sight.

You blinked, snapping your gaze up to his face. “What?”

His expression was unreadable—calm, unwavering, serious.

Your cheeks burned hot, yet at the same time, it felt like all the blood drained from your face. “Yoongi, are you joking?”

“No.” His eyes locked onto yours. “Marry me instead.”

"that is genuinely the worst idea youve ever had." you sighed, bringing your hands up to cup your face.

Yoongi leaned in, his voice steady but filled with something dangerously close to excitement. "But think about it," he urged, his dark eyes searching yours. "If you and I get married, your mom can't force you to take her place. She won’t be able to push you into marrying some stranger for the sake of the family business. You’d finally have your freedom. And…” he softened, a small, teasing smile forming as he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into a warm side-hug. "You’d get to be stuck with your best friend forever. Not the worst deal, right?"

You rolled your eyes but you did give it a once over and still you worried of the consequences. “But what about your parents?” you stood up, running your hands through your hair in an attempt to self sooth. Yoongi looked down at you. “What about my parents?” you asked in a panic just as you began pacing.

Yoongi watched you walk in circles with a dumbfounded look on his face as you rambled on and on about what could possibly happen as a result of you marrying the one person your parents didnt approve of. 

He grabbed your arm and pulled you into a hug, one hand resting on your back while the other pressed your head into his chest. “Trust me, its going to be okay.” he whispered as he began rubbing his hand up and down your back and just like usual you melted, relaxing in his arms. “Okay.” you took a deep breath. “Okay, okay.” you hugged him back.

What started as an absurd, last-minute idea turned into a long, drawn-out conversation—one that stretched into the early hours of the morning. Every doubt, every concern, every possible worst-case scenario was dissected between the two of you. And by the time the first rays of sunlight bled into the sky, the decision had already been made.

So, with the kind of recklessness that could only come from desperation and blind trust, you and Yoongi found yourselves standing in front of a clerk at city hall, signing away your last names and sealing your futures together.

You glanced at Yoongi as he pressed the pen to paper, his signature flowing effortlessly. He caught your eye, lips curling into a smirk.

"Too late to back out now," he teased.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, and quickly signed your own name. The witnesses—who very clearly recognized the both of you—exchanged hushed whispers, shooting skeptical glances your way. But none of it mattered.

Because as the final signature dried on the page, Yoongi nudged you with his elbow, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Guess you’re stuck with me now, wife."

For the first time in the sixteen years you had known Yoongi, you felt butterflies in your stomach. A feeling so foreign, so unexpected, that it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Because this wasn’t just Yoongi—your childhood best friend, your partner in mischief, the boy who always had your back.

No.

This was Min Yoongi. Your husband.

The weight of that realization settled over you like a second skin, both terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. He had chosen this—chosen you. And as if he could sense the storm of emotions brewing within you, Yoongi tightened his grip around your hand, grounding you.

You giggled, unable to help yourself. He smiled slightly, the corners of his lips twitching in quiet amusement, but he said nothing. The two of you simply took your copies of the marriage documents and headed toward the grand venue that had once been meant for your wedding to Lee Ho.

The moment you stepped out of the car, a shrill voice cut through the air.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Your mother’s panicked screech rang out as she stormed toward you, the chiffon of her designer gown billowing with each sharp step. “You’re not dressed! You don’t have your things! Do you have any idea what you’re doing right now, Y/N?”

You barely had time to react before she was gripping your wrist, her nails digging slightly into your skin as if to keep you from running.

“Mom. Mom.” You quickly took her hands in yours, squeezing them in an attempt to calm her. "Please. Just listen to me."

Your mother inhaled sharply through her nose, clearly battling the urge to continue her tirade. With great effort, she pressed her lips together, her chest rising and falling in measured breaths.

“What?” she hissed, voice laced with venom. “What is it, Y/N?”

You swallowed hard, but there was no hesitation in your words.

“Min Yoongi and I are married.”

The world seemed to fall silent for a moment.

Then, Yoongi stepped forward, emerging from behind you with the kind of effortless confidence that only he possessed. His posture was relaxed, but the quiet power in his presence was unmistakable. He met your mother’s gaze with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes steady, unwavering.

Dressed in a deep lavender button-up, black slacks, polished dress shoes, and with his hair styled neatly, he was the picture of a responsible young man. Someone respectable. Someone competent.

Someone untouchable.

Your mother’s face instantly flushed a deep, unforgiving shade of red. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and disappeared into the venue without another word.

You blinked, momentarily stunned by her lack of reaction.

Finally, you turned to Yoongi, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Well… that wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for,” you admitted, pressing a hand to your stomach as a light giggle escaped your lips. "But honestly? It’s a hell of a lot better than the one I thought I’d get."

Yoongi smirked, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Guess we got off easy.”

just as the two of you began walking back to the car the entire crowd began walking out of the venue, all the guests. "that was quick as fuck. i do not want them to see you just get into the car." you rushed yoongi and he nodded, climbing into the car.

Yoongi did feel like he had taken something special from you, the wedding you had planned and prepared for so he allowed the two of you to planned one of your own. He wanted you to have your own beautiful day.

And so your fingers idly traced the outlines of floral arrangements and color palettes as you fine-tuned the vision for your wedding venue. You felt the indentation your pencil made on the paper just beneath your fingers. It had been a long day, and the quiet hum of the apartment was soothing. That was until the door clicked open causing your attention to snap up at your husband. God it made your heart grow a size everytime you remembered the two of you were married.

“Hey, love,” Yoongi’s deep voice filled the space, smooth and familiar. He kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket, his movements relaxed but deliberate.

You looked up, offering him a small smile. “I’m working on the visuals for the venue,” you murmured, holding up the pages for him to see.

Yoongi leaned over the back of the couch, resting a hand beside you as he peered over your shoulder. His warmth surrounded you, a presence you had grown so used to over the years but had never been this hyper-aware of until now. “Mmm, that’s beautiful,” he murmured in approval. “The colors are gonna fit perfectly. I can send you the playlist I put together later.”

“You made a playlist?” you teased, glancing at him with a raised brow.

His lips curled into a lazy smirk. “Of course. You know I have good taste.”

You chuckled, shaking your head before returning to your sketches. The comfortable silence settled between you both, but Yoongi didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted, lowering himself onto the couch beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. His gaze lingered on your face, thoughtful.

“Can I ask you something?” His voice was quieter now, softer.

You hummed in response, still focused on your work.

“Are you happy?”

That made you pause. Your fingers froze over the page, and you turned to face him fully. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were searching, almost hesitant.

“I mean, with all of this,” he continued, nodding toward the wedding plans. “With me.”

Your breath hitched. It was an unexpected question, but one you didn’t need time to answer. “Of course, I am,” you admitted, almost confused as to why he’d ask.

Yoongi’s lips parted slightly, like he was weighing his next words. Then, with a quiet exhale, he ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before locking onto yours again. “I know we started this for convenience,” he said, his tone careful. “But I don’t think I’ve been pretending.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I think it was ninth grade that i figured out i have feelings for you,” he confessed, avoiding your gaze. “I just... never said anything because I thought it would mess things up. But now that we’re here, now that you’re mine—” he swallowed, fingers flexing against his thigh, “—I don’t want to pretend like it’s just for show. I want this. You. Us.”

The weight of his words settled over you like a warm embrace, and for a moment, you could only stare. The realization bloomed in your chest, sudden and inevitable, like a match being struck in the dark. He called you his so comfortably and it instantly made you feel like you were floating out of your body.

So you didn’t say anything. Instead, you reached for him, closing the space between you as your lips pressed against his.

Yoongi inhaled sharply, as if he hadn’t expected you to respond this way, but the moment he processed it, he melted into you. His hand cradled your jaw, fingers grazing your skin with a tenderness that sent shivers down your spine. The kiss was slow, unhurried, filled with all the words neither of you had dared to say before.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet of the room.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s not pretend.”

Yoongi smiled. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and for the first time since all of this started, you felt truly, completely sure. 

“So,” you paused, straddling him. “This is what you meant when you said that I deserve way more than to settle?” You giggled, draping your arms over his shoulders but Yoongi had been so satisfied with the outcome of his sudden confession that all he did was smile while the soft blush consumed his face. His smile alone satisfying you.

so like i said i found this request intimidating because Ive never written mafia au before but I wanted to challenge myself and I ended up having a lot of fun with it lol and actually had more of a hard time deciding in which direction I wanted It to go. let me know if you guys would want the 7k word version of this. not to sound like I'm holding it hostage but i of course need more than 1 or 2 people to want it. OH ALSO new banner what do you think? i thought this fic needed something new since its a whole au lol and yes the full version includes smut (you dirty dawgs ヾ(≧ ▽ ≦)ゝ

➽ Main Masterlist ➽ Taglist Form

[solarwonux]

Business Proposal || knj (9/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, fluff, flirting, semi-edited, smut, fingering, eating out, unprotected sex.

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 8.0

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

A/n: lol, hello, I'm sorry for being so MIA lately. I kinda have had half of this written since November but my mom came to visit me in Korea and I forgot about it haha. If you are still here thank you for sticking around! Enjoy! Let me know your thoughts!

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10 Years Ago

Things were finally looking up.

“If you just remember everything we have gone over you'll be fine.” He simply says like it's no big deal, waving you off. 

You on the other hand are filled with the gnawing pain of your nerves. As you look down at your notebook filled with an equal mixture of correct and incorrect answers. 

Maybe things weren't really looking up. 

“I think we should do a few more.” You rush out, flipping to a new page. In that exact moment, the buzzer in Namjoon's hand goes off, and he stands up. 

He pushes in his chair and walks to stand beside you, putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Over studying is not the answer.” He says gently, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before walking away to pick up your drinks. 

Your protest dying as you burn daggers into his back. You aren't sure if it's a good thing that he has so much faith in you. When you don't have an ounce in yourself. Especially when in two days you'll hopefully end your misery with the dreaded math final. 

It's been two whole months since you've started your weekly tutoring sessions with Namjoon. You aren't completely lost in class anymore. If you are, you just come to the broad man and drown him in all kinds of questions. With this tactic you've even managed to get an eighty-five present in your last math test. 

The only thing left for you to pass is the stupid final.

You have been seeing Namjoon a lot more this week. Scheduling, and practically begging him to squeeze you into his tight schedule since Monday. A request to brush up on equations and gain some clarity on things you might have forgotten. To say the least, your test anxiety has reached a whole new level. You visibly look exhausted, your skin is oilier than usual, sporting a few painful pimples on your chin, and your hair looks so greasy despite just washing it in the morning. You should feel slightly ashamed for even leaving your house looking like a hot mess, but your thoughts are suffocating. Staying in would make the panic in the pit of your stomach worse. 

Especially when you and your tutor have recently discovered your inability to do word problems. The main reason why you keep calling Namjoon at three in the morning. Even though he thinks you're just being paranoid, especially with the silent sigh of defeat you hear through your phone speaker. He tries his best to reassure you that you're going to be fine at the end of the day. 

“There will probably be three, five at most. He had said last night when you called. 

Thankfully he had stayed up revising his final paper, instead of being three dimensions deep in dream land like on Sunday when you called. Still, even though he had muttered out a tiny complaint, he stayed on the line with you. Until you were calm enough to fall asleep again. 

In just three months your acquaintance has blossomed into a full on friendship. Along with your sneaking suspicion that both Taehyung and Jimin like him better. It was obvious last Friday night when Jimin had a small end of the semester get together at his apartment. Namjoon got so drunk he performed the entirety of Grease Lightning on karaoke. Including the dance break with special guest and step brother Jeon Jungkook. 

Later on in the night the older of the four cried about the final scene in the Titanic. It was a rollercoaster of emotions, but heartwarming to be able to see a different side of the Philosophy student. 

“Look who decided to join us.” You jump, placing your pen down in your notebook, closing it to hold your page. You turn around, feeling a wide smile come onto your face when you lock eyes with the other source of your happiness these last few months. 

“Hobi,” you exclaim, holding your arms out to him. He chuckles, and leans down giving you one of those awkward hugs one gives when the other person is sitting down. It only lasts a few seconds and then he is leaning his head back to plant a sloppy kiss on your cheek, making you cringe. 

“Ew,” you pout, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. He chuckles, pecking your lips lightly and then taking the seat next to you. 

“Joon says you need a break from being a math wizard.” He chuckles, dragging your notebook to him. He places his arms over it keeping it hostage.

You whine crossing your arms in front of you, pouting like a child. “But what if I don't pass. I don't want to have to take the class a third time.” 

Namjoon shakes his head, sets your chamomile tea in front of you, and sits down. “I already told you, you won't. I did the math last night. Even if you get a sixty five percent, you'll still be able to pass the class with a B.” He states firmly and takes a sip from his coffee. 

You huff, sinking further into the chair. “I don't want a B, I want an A.” 

Hoseok snakes an arm over your shoulders and brings you close to his side.” “Then you will pass the class with an A honey cakes.” He kisses your temple before resting his cheek on top of your head. You take a deep breath, nodding and snuggling closer to him.

“So are you two dating now?” Namjoon leans back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of him.

Hoseok waves an arm, brushing off the question that has been surrounding the two of you these past three weeks. “You know it's not like that.” He answers before you can. He pulls his arm away and sets them both on top of your notebook. He sends you a knowing wink. 

“Yeah you out of all people should know it's not like that.” You back up Hoseok, sticking your tongue out at the other. “How's Rina by the way?” You challenge making the man next to you burst out in a fit of giggles. 

You see, most of the things Jungkook told you about Namjoon prior to your first meeting have all been lies. Or just not the whole truth.

Namjoon was a broody person. He did put his studies as one of his priorities in life. And he didn't want a relationship. 

Yet in the last few months you have gotten to know the career driven man. You've also managed to peel back some of his layers. 

He did have his moments of indignation, but he could also be very playful and funny. This side mostly comes out when Hoseok is around or when he wants you to get your mind off the things that have been stressing you out. He does have a strong work ethic, but he also knows when to take a break. 

There have even moments in your tutoring slash now study sessions when he forces you to take walks. He says it helps clear your head, but you also know it's his way to get his ideas to flow again whenever he feels stuck. 

During these walks you've managed to find out more things about him. He loves museums because he's shit at art, and knowing that there are people out there who aren't makes him appreciate the art a lot more. At least once every two months he visits the tree he and his father planted his mother’s ashes at to update her on his life. He cares so much for Jungkook and his mother even if he doesn't show it all the time. And despite not wanting a relationship he has been head over heels for the girl he's been casually hooking up with for the last two years. 

Though he won't come out and say it himself. You have witnessed the way his face settles down into something calmer. And his eyes light up whenever his phone rings and her name pops up on the screen.

He once spent thirty minutes talking about a joke she had told him one night. Spoiler alert, it wasn't a good one, but it was adorable watching him try to get it out in-between chuckles. 

You also know he shares the same negative sentiment Jungkook has about your current relationship with his best friend. But just like he claims that his relationship with Rina is complicated. So, is yours with the ray of sunshine you get to now call friend.

“She's fine.” He shrugs, clearing his throat and looking out the window. You share a look with Hoseok before letting out a fit of shared giggles. 

If someone had once told you that your strict math tutor slash friend would turn into a shy mess with just the simple mention of a name. You would've thought they were fucking with you. Even if it still surprises you a little bit. 

“You should just ask her to be your girlfriend.” Hoseok chimes in. 

Namjoon throws his head back groaning. “It wouldn't work out if I do, plus that would require for me to act like a boyfriend and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.” He speaks with his eyes trained on the high ceiling of the cafe. 

You lean forward placing your elbows on top of the table and wrapping your arms around the hot mug. “You already do Namjoon. A switch of labels is not going to change anything. And don't you think she deserves some kind of confirmation and respect when it comes to your relationship?” You finish tilting your head to the side. 

“I do respect her though, which is why I don't want to ask her, like you just said a label won't change anything.” 

You let out a sigh, “I didn't say that you didn't respect her. I just think that from a girl's perspective she might be feeling a little bit confused with your words and actions. You say the two of you aren't anything serious but then you act like you can't live without her. If I was in her shoes I would feel very frustrated. So, maybe you don't have to make this big grand gesture or ask her to officially be your girlfriend but just clarify things between the two of you. If you aren't serious about her then so be it but if you are then tell her that.” You finish and take your first sip from your tea. 

“I agree with honey cakes, just be a little more straight forward that's all.” Hoseok shrugs before standing up. 

Namjoon rolls his eyes, and looks between the two of you. “And what about you?” He counteracts childishly. You knew it was coming. In his eyes the two of you giving him advice when you're in a similar situation is a bit hypocritical. Plus you and Hoseok are on the same page so it's di–

“That's different.” Hoseok speaks before you. “And this is about your love life not ours.” He states stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“Whatever.” Namjoon brushes off. You sigh, aware that if you choose to continue the conversation it will end in the three of you having a petty argument. You look at Hoseok as he leans down, placing a delicate kiss on your cheek, making the man witnessing the affectionate gesture scoff in annoyance. 

If he wants to say something he doesn't voice it instead he opens his leather bound notebook to a new page. 

Hoseok ignores him and stands up straight. “Are we still on tonight?” 

You nod. “I can't stay for long though I want to catch up on sleep.” 

“Fine then just one movie it is.” He winks before turning on his heels. Leaving you behind with the grumpy man. He looks up from his journal, opening his mouth, but you raise a hand to stop him. “It's different Namjoon.” 

Namjon clicks his tongue in annoyance and shrugs. “Whatever, let's just do one more world problem before calling it a day.” 

“Fine,” you huff, sliding your notebook in front of you and opening it to a clean page. 

Just one more day and you'll be free from this torture. 

Hoseok's apartment is everything you expect from the maximest man. Just upon walking in you are hit with waves of bright colors. By the doorway there are different KAWS figurines that you can only imagine cost a fortune. Yet they greet you with their x'd out eyes as you remove your shoes. 

Then you have to pass by the Supreme beaded curtain to finally enter the living room. A bright red leather couch is settled in the middle. With wine colored pillows and a black throw blanket that you've adopted since the first night you spent in Hoseok's arms.

Abstract art lines the walls behind the television. There are more figurines lining the shelves in between books, records, and framed pictures of his friends and families. Along with a few miscellaneous items that he's told you he's obtained over the years.

His TV is huge. Takes up almost the whole wall, but your favorite to watch movies since he installed a surround system upon moving in years ago. 

You still remember the first night he invited you over. It was after spending two whole weeks texting non stop. He simply asked if you wanted to watch a movie with him and you thought why not. 

One night led to another and now another. It always starts the same. The two of you spend days teasing one another through text. Lewd texts along with pictures. You come over for a movie and then you end up underneath him. 

When it's over, he lets you use his shower while he orders takeout from the vegan restaurant a block down the road. And the two of you resume watching the movie as if neither of you were panting each other's names in pleasure. 

A simple arrangement with absolutely no strings attached.

It was what you were expecting when you came over tonight. Not that you don't mind the nights in which you do come over and nothing happens other than the deep hearted talks over a slow record playing in the background. But that wasn't happening either, because ever since you arrived at his doorstep, the overzealous man has been quiet. Biting the inside of his cheek and moving around you far enough to raise suspicion. 

It has your mind traveling back to the conversation that occurred in the afternoon. Was Hoseok having second thoughts? Or was there more to his actions than what you were picking up? 

“Hobi,” you whisper the minute he enters his living room with a bowl of popcorn stepping over your legs that were resting on his coffee table. He silently settles down next to you, on the other side of the couch with a gap wide enough to fit a person in between. 

Now you're more than positive that something is wrong. 

You groan, “I think I'll just go home then.” You mumble, pushing the throw blanket of your shoulders. 

This is enough to catch his attention. His eyes are wide behind his dark rimmed glasses and he sits up. “What why?” He tilts his head in confusion. 

A dry chuckle escapes your lips. “You obviously don't want me around, so I'll just go. I need to go to sleep early anyway.” You shrug, slipping your feet in his fuzzy slippers and swiftly start making your way to grab your stuff in his room. 

“No I–wait.” Finally, he speaks up, earning an eye roll from you that he can't see as your back is still turned. 

With haltered steps you spin on your heel to face him again, “What? You've been acting strange since I got here. So, if you don't want me around I will just go home.” 

At lightning speed he sets the bowl of popcorn on his coffee table, and stands up. He makes hasty steps towards you and when he is finally standing in front of you, he sets both of his hands on top of your shoulders. 

“Don't leave…I'm sorry.” Hoseok's eyes cast down past your face. They settle upon the graphic on your old washed out t-shirt. He takes a deep breath and looks up again. His face twists into something you can't decipher. It's a look you've never seen him wear, and it settles hard into your chest. 

He looks troubled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His eyes dart to five different focal points. You know he's arguing with himself. When he finally looks at you in your eyes again. You can't help but shrink a little bit. 

His features have hardened, and you want to reach out to smooth over the little worry lines in the middle of his forehead. Guilt washes over you. 

For what? 

You don't know but you hope more than anything that you'll soon find out. 

“Can we talk?” He speaks up, letting his arms fall down, his knuckles brushing against your skin. 

For a second you think he's going to pull away. Retrieve into his body, but when he grabs your hands and laces his fingers with yours. The guilt in the pit of your stomach dissipates and you're left with confusion. 

When you don't answer his question, he repeats himself. This time differently, “I just think we need to talk, I've been thinking since this afternoon. I want to check up on you, and I guess us.” He clarifies, and now you're filled with a different kind of emotion. As much as you're relieved that you didn't do anything wrong per se. You are slightly annoyed that he couldn't just tell you that when you first arrived. Instead of ignoring you until you reached your breaking point. 

Frustrated, you say slowly, “Then just say that, instead of ignoring me.” 

Hoseok closes his eyes and sighs, nodding his head before speaking, “you're right I'm sorry. I just have a lot on my mind and I am not sure how to bring any of what I'm thinking about up.” 

“Hobi, just say it. We agreed on clear communication when we realized that this was going to be more than just a one night stand.” You sigh, beginning to walk in the direction of his couch, stringing him along. “Whatever is on your mind, just say it.” You push him onto his couch and take the seat next to him, your body fully facing his, and you fold your legs beneath you. 

He nods, running a hand down his face. “I don't think this is working anymore.” He whispers, eyes trained on his ceiling. 

Okay you were definitely not expecting that, but instead of voicing your surprise, you squeeze his hand. Encouraging him to continue. 

He does, “I think I'm slowly falling for you, well I don't know I'm confused about my feelings.” He whispers the end and falls quiet. 

As much as you want to run away and hide at his confession. He looks troubled and you wouldn't be a good friend if you just left him to wallow in his thoughts. No matter the pressure that has settled in your chest. Or the fact that your heart thinks you're running a marathon, making your ears feel like they're about to fall off too. 

With every passing moment you're finding that it's getting harder to breathe. You aren't dumb, the atmosphere has also changed, but it isn't because of his confession. It's because you are also a bit confused about your feelings.

You clear your throat, “W-What are you confused about?” 

He stops his staring game with the ceiling, shifting his whole body to finally face you. “Do you know why both Kook and Joon are so against us?” 

The question throws you off guard but you suppose it has to do with what he's going through. You do have an idea as to why your friends are raising a brow at your relationship. Jungkook’s warning the first day you met the barista is enough for you to get a rough idea of what they mean. But you want to hear it from him. 

Still you don't know if you can trust your voice so you shake your head. 

He continues, “I've never been in a relationship because I don't trust people to love me the way I know I can love them. So, I just sleep around, and when I get bored I break it off.” 

 “I know. They warned me about you when you immediately showed interest. And trust me I knew what I signed up for when we agreed to keep seeing each other. I don't expect anything more than what we are doing.” You tilt your head to the side.

“I know that's why I'm confused. At first that's all I expected and wanted. But then I don't know I feel so full and empty when I'm with you. I don't want you to leave when the night is over. You're the last thing I think about and the first thing I want to see. I've never felt this sure and comfortable with anyone ever, and I don't know what to do because we both know this isn't forever, your forever is with someone else, and so is mine. But for now I just want to be with you and know what it's like to fall in love and with you.” He takes a deep breath. “Even if it's just for a little bit. You know that next year I'll be leaving for that design school, and I'm sorry but nothing and no one is going to stop me. I've waited too long for this opportunity. I know I'm being selfish to ask you this, but can you please find it in your heart to let me be yours until then?” 

Hoseok finishes. And you're left to your own devices. To deal with your emotions as they spill out of you in hot tears. You've never had someone confess to you so passionately before. Actually nobody has ever bothered. And even though it's semi depressing you can't help but feel on cloud nine with all his words wrapping around you in the warmth that he radiates. 

Without thinking you kneel, and wrap your arms around his neck. “Okay let's do it.” You beam and he matches your smile. He leans in to kiss you but you place your hand over his mouth to stop him. 

Confusion plagues him like a bitter sting. You laugh, “But only if you agree that when everything is over there's no drama between us, and if I ever get married you have to design my wedding dress.” You remove your hand, and cradle his cheek, rub your thumb over his eyebrow. 

He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “You will get married.” 

“Nah, but it's okay. I've accepted my faith.” You shrug, resting your forehead against his. His hands come up your cheek, squishing them slightly.

“You will honey cakes, that's why I'm already planning your dress design in my head.” He wipes your forgotten tears, and tilts your head to the side. 

You feel your breathing get faster, as his heart shaped lips rest centimeters apart. “How are you so sure?” You whisper, swallowing thickly at the end. 

He smirks, with a glint in his eye. Like he knows something you don't, “because I know someone who is also falling for you but they’re to dumb to notice “ 

“Who?” 

“Secret,” he says before finally crashing his lips onto yours.

Hoseok’s room is equally as loud as his living room. It’s a little more diluted with simple decorations and a huge abstract painting on the wall in front of his bed. His bed takes up most of his space, adoring a black duvet with black sheets. He has three pillows and two of those you’ve taken ownership of. His brown dresser holds little trinkets of things he buys or finds in the pockets of his pants. It’s also home to a series of designer colognes. Your favorite one was definitely Terre d'Hermes. Somehow the smell always fills with comfort. 

Your favorite part of his room–other than his bed–was his desk. They say you can tell a lot about a person by just looking at their work space. 

He’s a messy artist. His sketches are always thrown around, or pinned on the corkboard hanging over his desk. He has two bookshelves filled with sketchbooks and magazines. Sometimes if you’re lucky he will leave his sketchbooks open, awarding you with a small glance of his work. He has different notebooks for different magazine cutouts. Each one labeled something like, ‘street’ or ‘formal’ or ‘one-day.’ The latter always peaks your interest but you’ve never thought to ask. He has a thousand different sketching materials, and so many colorful markers. You just know that he was that kid in class with the sixty-four crayola back. 

He's passionate about his craft. A passion that shines through everything that he does. Especially when he’s sharing that passion with you. Now, as he lays you down onto his soft mattress. He kisses his way down your neck, slowly pushing your shirt up to reveal your stomach and the few stretch marks that appeared one day in your early adolescent years. 

For years it was hard to be intimate with someone in fear that they would disgust your partner. But the one thing you learned while growing up was that most men didn’t give a shit unless they were getting it. 

Yet Hoseok, your boyfriend, now. 

He cares. 

In a good way. The first time he saw you naked he almost came in his jeans. Your curves were all in the right places. You have enough skin to grip onto, and he loves all the marks and imperfections your body has. 

He couldn’t understand why you were so beautiful in the soft glow of his bedroom lights? Why he didn’t have the words to describe how his heart was literally beating against his ribcage?  Why for the first time in his casual dating experience he feared he wouldn't be able to give you the pleasure you deserved? 

So, that first night together, he took his time. Trying to get his thoughts under control. He painted your body with featherlight kisses. Determined to leave his trace imprinted in your body for however long you two would engage with each other. 

Everytime you came over. He did just that. He took his time, choreographing a dance with your body. It was a no-brainer that he had fallen for you. Something he knew shouldn’t have happened. He had plans for himself. He had a future mapped out since he was teenage. Though, he had the sneaking suspicion that you wouldn’t stop him from achieving his goals. That you would support him through everything. He should’ve stopped his feelings for you from growing. 

He kept them quiet until his portfolio got accepted. Until he saw the brief glances Namjoon gave you when he thought you weren’t looking. Perhaps it was the jealousy that made him confess. Or that his time with you was now limited. Whatever the reason was that led him to his confession, he only hoped that you felt the same. 

You giggle, the beautiful melodic sound grounds him as he wraps a calloused hand around your right breast, circling his thumb around the pebble. 

You're his girlfriend now. 

He, your boyfriend and he will bring down the moon for you tonight if you asked him too. 

“What’s so funny?” His curious stare meets your amused one. 

You had failed to keep your giggles at bay while he made out with you on his couch. He let a few of his own out when he had had enough of kissing and grinding in his living room, and guided you into his room. 

He loved the sound, and he loved that it was only because after months of dancing this tango you were still shy underneath him. 

“Nothing, it’s just that Mickey is staring at us.” You whisper gasping when he grinds his lower half against yours. Hoseok playfully rolls his eyes, reaching and turning around the newly added picture of his family dog on his bedside table. No more prying dog or human eyes around to interrupt the two of you. 

His attention returns to you. Gaze burning with lust as he leans down, pecking your lips lightly. “Can you stay over?” He says, kneading your breast again. The teasing touches were driving you insane. But this is how you preferred it. Slow and intense, tangling your body with his, until the two of you became one. 

“I’ll make an exception if you promise to drive me to my class tomorrow with a free coffee.” You smile, pushing your chest into his hand. 

He shook his head, reaching down to your lips. “Hustler.” He mumbles, capturing your mouth in a slow sensual kiss. “You got yourself a deal baby girl.” 

Your body shudders at the nickname. He only used it when it was just the two of you. He knew the effect it had on you. “Can I take your shirt off now?” He smirks. 

You let out a pleasurable sigh, nodding your head, before verbalizing a soft, “yes.” 

He pulls away, sitting back on his heels, peeling his shirt off before helping you with yours. He discards the two of them somewhere behind him. He pulls you towards him again, resting his forehead against yours. A bright smile adorning his perfect face. 

It makes your stomach crumble, knowing that from this moment on.

Hoseok would always be the one who got away. 

Your big “what if.” 

Your biggest treasure. Your safe place. Your blueprint for a future with someone else. The love story that was made to end. But one that burned so bright that would have you telling your future daughter to never be afraid of love. 

“Can we go slow today?” You run your hands down his torso, playing with the belt buckle of his expensive belt. 

“I’ll go at whatever pace you want me to go, baby girl.” He reassures,  his fingers play with the bra strap that had fallen down your shoulder. 

You tilt your head, looking at him with soft eyes. And he swears he feels himself melt. 

The next few minutes were a mess of soft kisses and clothes being discarded. Each article of clothing, landing with a soft ‘thud’ against his bedroom floor. You’re on cloud nine, his lips kiss down your neck, your collarbone. His hands part your thighs, baring your cunt to him. He sits back, mouth watering at how wet you are. He couldn’t wait for a taste. 

He could never wait. And he never did. 

He kisses your mound before wrapping his lips around your clit. He savors the sigh that escapes your mouth. He smirks when he immediately feels you grip his hair, pushing him further. Just like he couldn’t resist, you also couldn’t.

He sucked, distracting you from his finger circling around your entrance making you gasp in surprise when you feel him insert one. Slowly thrusting it as he licked you like a man who has been starved for weeks. 

“Hobi,” You sigh, pushing his head further. He fingers you faster until he feels you clench around him, and he stops, making you whine. 

“Please,” you plead. He chuckles against you, inserting another finger. This time he doesn’t give you time to adjust. You feel him thrust into you with no hesitation. His mouth sucking on your clit, swirling his tongue around it playing with the nub. 

You were withering, moaning his name, and anything your mind could conjure up in this moment. 

Overwhelmed with blissful pleasure, you grip his bed sheets, bucking your hips into his face. He groans, knowing you were on edge from how tight your grip on his head was now. And he did the one thing he knew would drive you insane. He slowed down, until he came to a complete stop. 

“Hoseok,” you groan, slamming your hand onto his comforter. He chuckles, lifting his head. Your body was flushed, your lips swollen, your hair splayed out around you. He loves bringing you to this moment. 

“You said you wanted slow.” He grins, taking his fingers out of your pussy. Loving the way it clenched over nothing now. Almost as if it was begging to be played with again. 

You roll your eyes, pouting. “Not this slow. I want to come.” You say, sitting up on your elbows. 

“Oh baby you will.” He winks, licking his fingers clean. He leans over, pecking your lips quickly. “You will come as many times as you want. But I want the first one to be around my cock tonight.” 

You gasp at his words. You knew his mouth was lethal but sometimes it still surprises you. The lust lacing with his soft timbre made you weak in the knees. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. 

The word ‘slow’ is forgotten from either of your vocabularies, while the two of you kiss hungrily. Sucking on tongues, teeth clashing, hands touching and clutching onto anything and everything. 

Hoseok lays you down on your side, climbing in behind you. His teeth nips at your bottom lip and he wrapped your leg around his hips. He kisses down your neck, while you help guide his cock to your entrance. He locks his eyes with yours as he slowly pushes himself in. His arms wrap around your torso, and he pushes you closer to his chest. 

Both of your heartbeats are in sync. Racing against the clock, basking in pleasure that you never want it to end. 

“Move please.” You say, lifting your face to kiss him. 

He begins to move his hips, making you gasp into each other's mouths. It’s a sloppy pace from the start but you don't care. You want more, so you met his thrusts halfway. One of his hands palms at your breast. He alternates between swallowing your moans and leaving his mark on anything he can get his lips on. 

“B-Baby.” He moans, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m close, are you?” He thrusts, letting out a low moan when he feels you clench around him.

He didn’t give you a minute to answer, before he was lifting your leg higher around his waist, allowing himself to reach the deepest part of you. “Touch yourself baby.” 

You moan his name, letting go of his hand, your finger meeting your clit, rubbing it in circles. Trying to keep up with his unrelenting pace. And soon you feel him still behind you, eyes shutting in pleasure as he spills himself inside of you. His orgasm triggers the coil in the pit of your stomach as you feel your release wash over you in a tidal wave, making you push his cock and cum out of you. His fingers frantically come down to meet yours as he helps you ride out your wave. He whispers praises against your skin while you come down.

Hoseok kisses your lips slowly, chuckling before whispering words that you will forever hold near and dear to your heart. 

“I love you.” He pushes your hair away from your face. “I love you so much to know that one day I’ll have to let you go.”

You giggle, turning in his arms, nuzzling your head into his neck. “I love you.” 

You feel him laugh, twinkling his fingers down your spine, “Let’s get matching tattoos.” 

You look up at him, raising a brow before shaking your head. “You just made me squirt, told me you loved me, and now you want to get matching tattoos?” 

“What better way to commemorate the best ego boost.” He shrugs. 

“You’re insane.” You untangle yourself from his embrace. You stand up, putting on his shirt. 

“I didn’t hear a no.” He says smugly, putting his arms underneath his head. 

“Because you’re an insane idiot who makes me agree to things like these.” You smile, before walking out of his room. 

“Great, I’ll make an appointment.” He shouts after you, “I love you.” He adds after a moment. 

You enter his kitchen, and turn on the lights. You can feel your smile take up your entire face. For a moment you realize that for the first time in a long time you felt happy. 

So yeah, maybe, things were finally looking up. 

“You’re late.”

Namjoon says after taking a slow sip from his coffee. He looks at you from over the rim of his glasses. 

You roll your eyes, setting your bag down on the empty chair. “It's raining, and I forgot my umbrella. I had to wait for the rain to stop.”

“You could’ve texted to let me know.” He shrugs, setting his cup down on the coaster and flipping the page of his book. 

You sigh, before (gently) throwing your phone onto the table. “It’s dead. And before you ask, no I didn’t bring a charger. No, Jungkook wasn’t in class today so he couldn’t give me a charger, an umbrella, or a ride. Jimin is sick. And Taehyung doesn’t even go to our school. He's probably getting high with his new fling, so I wouldn’t have been able to ask him either.” You say, listing all the solutions he would’ve thought about in seconds. 

“Mhm,” he nods, closing his book. “And your boyfriend?”

Annoyed, you let out a whine, crossing your arms in front of you. “I don’t know, let me go downstairs and ask him. I’m sure he can stop managing a business to give me an umbrella.” 

Namjoon leans his elbows against the table. “Trouble in paradise?” He tilts his head, clasping his hands on top of his book. 

You shake your head, pulling out your chair and slumping down in it. “Hobi and I are fine. It’s not like he’s leaving in two months or anything.” You throw your hands up in exasperation. 

It’s month seven into your shining relationship with Hoseok, and you should’ve known that things would start to hit the fan sooner rather than Later. Your boyfriend was in the middle of the most tumultuous change of his life. Things were moving quickly and his time dedicated to you was bumped down his monstrous daily to-do list. 

Yet you couldn’t do or say anything because isn’t this what you signed up for? 

“Ah, so there is trouble.” Namjoon chuckles before opening his book again, setting his fancy leather bookmark aside. “This is exactly why I don’t do relationships, they just attract problems.” He adds, giving you a pointed look. 

You roll your eyes, “Shut up asshole, not all of us can be like you and Rina.” 

“Sure you can, it's simple just don't attach any strings to it.” He shrugs, underlining a sentence in his book. 

“Two people who have been only exclusively seeing each other for years literally the definition of strings attached. You can keep denying it all you want but she’s your girlfriend. You guys do all the couple-y stuff.” You grumble, leaning back in your chair, looking out of the window. The gloomy weather adds to your shitty mood. 

“She’s not, we are not dating, and I don’t need to talk about this with you again. Rina and I are on the same page.” He finishes, taking a long sip from his coffee.

“Well, how would you feel if Rina was spending time with another guy, completely ignoring your presence when you walk into her coffee shop all wet and angry because your professor basically told you your topic for your essay was shit.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’re jealous of Yuri.” 

“So what if I am?” You bite, “I understand that he’s training her to take over his position, but all he talks about is her and what he needs to teach her when we’re together. And whenever I come in they’re always laughing at something behind the coffee machine. And I know she’s nice and all but I would like his attention too.” You scoff. 

Namjoon hums, tapping his index finger against the table. “Do you trust him?” 

The question doesn’t catch you off guard, the obvious answer is on the tip of your tongue. But with how things have been going lately. You can’t help but hesitate. 

“I don’t know anymore.” You whisper looking down at your hands, turning the ring on your middle finger. “I know I should, and I do…I think I do. It’s just things have been so shit lately and I feel like a burden to him because of everything he has to do.” 

Namjoon lightly kicks your foot under the table, making you raise your head to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I am being of much help, but he loves you. I know that whatever is happening he’s not doing it intentionally. Just talk to him about it.” 

If only it were that easy. 

“I’d love to but he never has time.” 

“Why not talk to him now then.” He says reaching into his bag to take out his cigarettes and lighter. 

“He’s busy downstairs with Yu–” 

“No, I’m not busy now.” 

You jump at the sound of your boyfriend's voice. You turn your head to look at him. A small tray with a mug of probably chamomile tea on top of it. His hair is shorter than the last time you saw him two days ago. He got a haircut and didn’t even tell you about it. That’s how low you have made it on his list. He can’t even send you a stupid picture of his new haircut. He can’t even send you a ‘goodmorning’ or ‘goodnight’ text. He also probably forgot that you were nervous for the meeting with your professor about your essay topic.

All these realizations make you want to roll into a ball and cry. You knew your time with Hoseok was limited. You just didn’t expect for the end to be so torturous. 

“That’s what I told her.” Namjoon speaks, narrowing his eyes at you for a second before turning his attention to his best friend. “She’s jealous of Yuri, because you’ve been spending too much time with her.” He shrugs, walking quickly to the stairs before you can bury him ten feet underground. 

You hear Hoseok let out a heavy sigh, and take the seat next to you. “Honeycakes,” he starts.

“Nice haircut.” You interrupt, slumping into your chair more. It earns another heavy sigh from the man sitting next to you. 

“Is Yuri the reason why you’ve been so upset lately?” He says placing a hand on top of your knee underneath the table. 

You let out a dry laugh before shaking your head. “No, it’s not her. It’s how you’ve been acting lately, it’s the time you’ve been spending with her. It's never having time for me anymore. It’s forgetting our date last week. It’s not even telling me that you got a haircut.” You finish, closing your fists to keep yourself from crying. 

Hoseok gives your thigh a squeeze before leaning back in his chair. “You know how things have been lately. I’m trying so hard to do everything I need to do. I don’t mean to be so dismissive but I can’t juggle everything at the same time.” 

You flick off a piece of lint from your jeans. “It’s nice to know that I’m just something you juggle around.” 

“That’s not what I meant. You knew what would happen when I started my application process. You said you understood.” 

“I did, or I thought I did Hoseok. I didn’t think I would become so secondary to you.” You sniffle. “I love that you’re chasing your dreams, but this is me trying to support you. I’m trying to understand how you’re feeling. But you stop me. You have shut me out and now I’m just something you remember sometimes.” You close your eyes, feeling the tears fall down your cheeks. 

The last thing you wanted was to be crying like this in public. 

“I-I want you to tell me when you’re having a hard time like you used to. I want you to feel like you can relax around me when we’re together. But every time we are together, we either argue, you don’t talk, or you talk about work, deadlines, or how you can’t wait to move. How do you think that makes me feel Hoseok?” 

Hoseok sighs, and wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I’m sorry.” He kisses your temple. “I wish you would’ve told me earlier before it got to this point.” He whispers, rubbing your back, while you lean your head onto his shoulder. 

“But Hobi like you said, this is what I signed up for. This is what I agreed to.”  You add bitterly. 

“Yes Honeycakes, but you’re still my girlfriend. And I know that I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately, but I do care about you and I do love you.” He lifts your head from his shoulder. He gently grabs hold of your face, making you look at him. “Just like how you want me to talk to you when something is bothering me, I also want you to talk to me.” 

You close your head sighing, “You’re right, I’m sorry that I keep making things difficult.” 

He shakes his head. “You don’t. I’m the one that can’t seem to keep my girlfriend from doubting me. I’m the one who hasn’t told her how much I yearn to be in her presence at every waking moment.” He says, his thumbs wiping away your tears. “I love you, and I think that’s why I’ve been so avoidant lately. I know that our days are numbered and I would rather ignore the fact that I’m moving away soon than cherish the moments I get to spend with my family, my friends and you.” 

You nod, holding out your pinky out to him. “I promise to keep trying my best.” 

He hooks his pinky with yours bringing your laced fingers up to his lips. “I promise to keep trying my best too.” 

“I love you,” You whisper, letting go of his finger and wrapping your arms around his waist. 

His low laugh makes his chest vibrate against your head, “I love you.” He adds, rubbing soothing circles over your back. “Now, can you please drink your tea before you get a cold. I texted you earlier asking if you needed an umbrella but you didn’t answer. And now look at you coming in here all pouty and wet.”  

You raise your head to look at him, opening your mouth to speak, only to be interrupted by the forgotten voice of your friend. “Her phone’s dead.” Namjoon throws his lighter onto the wooden table. 

Hoseok tsks shaking his head, reaching over to push the tray of your lukewarm tea closer to you. “I should’ve known. I knew you didn’t charge it last night, just like I knew that you left your umbrella at my place.” He pinches your cheek. “How did your meeting go?” 

“He basically said that I need to restart my essay topic over again.”

Hoseok laughs, bopping your nose with his own. “Well did he say those exact words?” 

“No but it was basically implied.”  You emphasize. 

“Fine, I’ll talk to your study partner if my baby isn’t being told that she’s a genius all the time, then what am I paying him for.” He jokes, which earns a glare from said study partner. 

“You’re not paying me, idiot.” Namjoon rolls his eyes, grabbing his brown leather messenger back and stuffing his cigarettes into the front pocket. 

He’s grateful that he came back to smiles and not tears. The stoicness of his actions makes the two of you laugh hard. Your laugh resonates longer in his mind. It always does. No matter how much he tries to deny it. You always resonate longer in his mind. But he pushes that fleeting thought aside. 

Namjoon is happy. 

His friends are happy. 

Things in his life were finally looking up. 

“I have to go, but don’t be late next time and charge your phone.” He says hoisting his bag onto his shoulders. 

You nod, saluting in his direction, before bursting out into a fit of giggles as Hoseok tickles your side. 

Namjoon doesn’t stay for longer than he needs to. He’s already running late to meet Rina, but he can’t hide the smile taking up his space.

He can’t help but feel proud that things were finally looking up for you too. 

a/n: I hope you have enjoyed it. I will try not to be so MIA and upload a little more frequently rather than every 6 months haha. But my life has been pretty busy lately. In the past few months. I have moved to a different part of Seoul and I got a new job. I basically just hang out with my friends when I have free time haha. I also do dance class 3 times a week, and I started personal training last week. But I will try to manage my time better because I do miss writing and this story!

[bts-scenarios-br]

React - Quando vocês brigam pela primeira vez

(gên. neutro)

Kim Namjoon

Assim que o Namjoon entrou pela porta do seu apartamento, você já sabia que tinha algo de errado. Ele estava quieto, tenso, grunhido pelos cantos até mesmo enquanto fazia algo simples como tirar o sapato na entrada na casa. Recentemente, as coisas estavam difíceis para ele na empresa. Muitos problemas, muitos dramas, muito trabalho. Enfim, muita coisa envolvendo ele, o grupo e a empresa, que afinal acabava sempre caindo no colo do líder.

“Amor?” Você disse, quando viu ele entrar na sala, deixando o livro que estava lendo de lado. “Está tudo bem?”

“Não.” Ele disse, com a voz um pouco baixa. “Eu preciso ficar um pouco sozinho, muita coisa aconteceu.”

Você ficou obviamente preocupade, e se levantou, indo atrás dele imediatamente.

“Nam… quer que eu faça alguma coisa pra você? Algo pra comer? Um chá?” Você perguntou, com preocupação evidente na voz.

“Não, obrigado.” Ele disse, de uma maneira meio frustrada, mas ainda assim mantendo a calma, sem querer descontar nada em você. “Só quero mesmo ficar um pouco sozinho, tá bem?”

“Tem certeza?” Você perguntou, ainda sem conseguir simplesmente abandonar ele. “Sabe que pode falar comigo, né? Pode se abrir que eu-”

“S/N, eu disse não.” Ele te cortou, começando a perder a paciência, fechando os olhos e massageando a cabeça dele de forma frustrada. “Não sabe ouvir um simples não?”

“Eu… sei, claro, mas eu só tô preocupada Nam…” Você disse, tentando não se mostrar chateade com as palavras dele. “Eu quero só te ajudar a ficar melhor.”

“Não tá ajudando.” Ele falou, de maneira até um pouco fria. Ele claramente não tinha saído da mentalidade do Kim Namjoon que estava lidando com burocracias e problemas dentro de uma grande empresa de entretenimento, e não estava conseguindo agir como o namorado carinhoso e cuidadoso que ele normalmente era com você. “Sai, S/N.”

Depois disso, você não teve coragem de fazer mais nada. Parte por entender que ele de fato queria ficar sozinho, e parte porque você tinha se magoado, por mais que não queria se deixar levar. Vocês nunca tinham brigado antes, porque nunca haviam chegado tão longe. Sempre que descrdavam de algo, ou faziam algo que incomodava um ao outro, conseguiam se comunicar de uma forma muito clara e produtiva para resolverem seus problemas. Mas não dessa vez.

Você só murmurou um pedido de desculpas baixinho, e saiu do quarto onde ele já estava. Ele ouviu apenas a porta da frente do apartamento fechando depois de uns instantes, e o arrependimento bateu instantaneamente nele. O Namjoon sentou na cama, cobrindo o rosto com as mãos e soltando um grunhido frustrado e auto depreciativo, se sentindo a pior pessoa do mundo por ter magoado a pessoa com quem ele mais se importa e que estava literalmente tentando cuidar dele.

Kim Seokjin

Ser uma pessoa insegura já é difícil por si só. Agora imagina ser uma pessoa insegura que namora um dos homens mais atraentes do mundo que também por acaso tem um senso de humor imparável? Bom, você nunca pensou nisso como um problema, na verdade, até porque o seu relacionamento com o Jin sempre foi isento de qualquer problema nos meses que vem acontecendo, mas infelizmente nada em excesso é bom, e isso foi a prova viva.

Neste dia em específico, você estava especialmente para baixo com a sua aparência física. O Jin tinha te chamado para ir jantar fora, nada muito chique, apenas para passarem um tempo de qualidade juntos, mas nada do que você colocava parecia te fazer sentir bem o suficiente em ser vista em público com ele. Por fim, apenas sentou na cama, cheia de frustração, e já questionando se mal deveria ir, enquanto o Jin estava sentado atrás de você, assistindo à tudo com uma leve dor no peito por ver a pessoa que ele mais admira não conseguir enxergar o seu valor.

Ele sentia a necessidade de ao menos tentar te animar um pouco, mesmo que fosse com algo bobo. Por isso ele pensou em apelar para o que sempre fazia: piadas. Qualquer coisa para tirar aquela carinha triste do seu rosto.

“Ei, Jagi… não se preocupa muito, você nunca vai ficar mais atraente que eu de qualquer forma, então não precisa se cobrar tanto.” Ele disse, com uma leve risada, mas instantaneamente percebeu que deveria pensar em uma piada melhor quando viu sua cara ficar ainda pior.

É, ele realmente devia ter pensado em uma piada melhor.

“Por que tá me namorando então?” Você respondeu, motivade pela insegurança e também pelo seu ego agora ainda mais ferido. “Devia ter arrumado alguém do seu nível.”

“Não, calma.” Ele falou, já desesperado, se levantando. “Não foi isso que eu quis dizer, sabe disso…”

“Sei mesmo, Seokjin?” Respondeu, e só por ter usado o nome inteiro dele, ele sabia que tinha errado mais do que esperava. “Porque algo me diz que essas suas piadinhas são só uma forma de me ofender sem ter culpa viu. Só não sei porque gasta seu tempo comigo se acha que merece algo tão melhor!” Você explodiu, e uma vozinha lá no fundo te dizia que estava exagerando, mas sua cabeça estava tão atordoada que mal conseguiu pensar com sanidade.

“Calmaí, S/N, você tá errada e sabe disso.” Ele disse, se estressando também pelas acusações. “Eu não estou perdendo meu tempo em você. Você é a pessoa mais linda, carinhosa, inteligente e gentil que eu conheço. Você é perfeite! Eu só faço essas piadas idiotas pra tentar parar a sua cabeça de se odiar tanto, e não porque eu acho que sou melhor do que você, e você já devia saber disso à essa altura do campeonato!”

Mas, por mais que ele tentasse colocar algum senso na sua cabeça, nada iria conseguir fazer a sua ansiedade e insegurança se aquietarem agora. No final, o Jin se encontrou para fora do quarto, com a porta trancada com você lá dentro, e a testa dele encostada na porta enquanto ele pensava em que ponto as coisas deram tão errado. Ele estava se odiando naquele momento, e se sentindo um fracasso de namorado. Ao invés de te fazer sentir amade, ele te fez sentir ainda pior do que antes, e isso estava matando ele por dentro, especialmente porque não sabia como concertar isso agora.

Min Yoongi

As últimas semanas vêm sendo um pouco difíceis para você e o Yoongi passarem um tempo juntos. Ele tem trabalhado horrores na produção do próximo álbum do grupo, além de ensaios, reuniões, gravações, e tudo mais o que tinha direito. Por mais que isso o chateasse, o tempo que ele estava dedicando a você era… muito pouco. Quase inexistente, na verdade.

E é por isso que essa noite você tinha se dedicado ao máximo para ficar perfeite para ele. Colocou a roupa que sabe que ele mais gosta, arrumou o cabelo nos mínimos detalhes, e dedicou muito mais tempo do que o normal para fazer uma maquiagem que te deixasse digne de uma foto no Instagram. E tudo isso porque ele tinha te dito que tinha conseguido uma noite livre do estúdio, e ia te levar para jantar em um restaurante novo que estava empolgade para conhecer.

Mas, como já era de se esperar, o universo não estava ao seu favor.

Faltavam mais ou menos vinte minutos para às oito, horário que ele havia combinado de te buscar, quando você ficou pronte. Sentou a ficou mexendo no celular por um tempo, para se distrair até dar a hora. Estava tão imserse no TikTok, que quando percebeu já eram quase nove, e por um segundo se desesperou pensando que havia perdido a hora, mas então se tocou que, na verdade, o Yoongi não tinha nem mesmo dado sinal de vida. Por isso, tentou mandar uma mensagem para ele, para questionar sobre o atraso.

“Yoon? Está tudo bem?”

“Você não esqueceu do nosso encontro… né?”

Você enviou as mensagens, e ficou olhando para a tela de forma ansiosa para esperar a resposta, mas ela não veio. Minutos se tornaram horas, e quando deu por si, estava prestes a cair no sono ali mesmo no sofá, mas foi impedide por um barulho da porta abrindo, quando já eram quase duas da manhã.

“S/N?” A voz rouca do Yoongi the tirou do sono por todo. “Olha, desculpa por não aparecer mais cedo, eu me enrolei com a produção de uma música e-”

“Nem tenta, Yoongi.” Você o cortou. “Você podia ter me mandado uma mísera mensagem, uma ligação, ia levar o que? Trinta segundos?” Você levantou, já estressade.

O Yoon não queria admitir, mas ele estava se sentindo horrível. Ele também queria muito passar a noite com você, e estava péssimo por ter se deixado perder no trabalho. Teve um momento enquanto ele dirigia de volta pra casa que ele até sentiu os olhos dele marejarem pelo peso de tudo em cima dele. Não tinha nada que o machucava mais do que saber que estava falhando como um namorado, então aguentar essas últimas semanas estava difícil não apenas pelo trabalho, mas também por isso.

Mas alto dentro dele o dizia que admitir que tinha pisado na bola iria deixar tudo pior, por isso que ao invés de apenas de desculpar e te consolar, ele decidiu levantar suas paredes e agir na defensiva.

“Eu tava ocupado de verdade, okay? É difícil de tirar meu foco do trabalho quando tô imerso nele, você sabe disso.” Ele disse, soando irritado.

“Você tá querendo dizer o que com isso?” Você perguntou, franzindo o cenho. “Que eu não sou tão levade à serio com o seu trabalho, ou o que?”

“Não começa a colocar palavra na minha boca…” Ele falou, com um tom um pouco mais baixo. “Não foi isso que eu quis dizer, e você sabe disso.”

“Mas parece!” Disse, se irritando.

“Olha sinceramente eu tenho coisa mais importante pra fazer do que ficar alimentando briga besta.” Ele falou, já começando a ir embora novamente.

“Onde você tá indo?” Você perguntou, meio em choque e meio indignada.

“Fazer algo mais produtivo.” Ele falou, e sem mais nenhuma explicação, foi embora, te deixando pra trás, tão impactade que mal conseguiu ter mais qualquer reação.

Jung Hoseok

O Hoseok já sentiu algo estranho antes mesmo de abrir a máquina de lavar roupas. Porque é que estava uma sombra tão visivelmente cor de rosa sendo que você tinha dito que ia colocar roupas brancas pra lavar? Ele já esperava que vocês dois morando juntos traria alguns tropeços de vez em quando, mas ele sinceramente não esperava que seria depois de menos d euma semana de você se mudando para a casa dele.

E ele estava certo. Assim que abriu a máquina, viu que as roupas estavam todas rosas. Ele já sentiu o nervosismo subir nele enquanto tirava as roupas de lá, e logo achou a responsável: uma calcinha. Não qualquer calcinha, claro. Era uma que inclusive já havia levado ele à loucura algumas vezes antes, mas dessa vez foi por um motivo diferente.

“S/N você não conferiu as roupas antes de colocar na máquina?” Ele perguntou, se aproximando de você que estava fazendo algo no seu computador, enquanto ele tentava não se estressar. Era só conversar com você e você ia entender, certo?

“Conferi.” Você respondeu, mal se dando ao trabalho de olhar para ele.

“Claramente não conferiu o suficiente.” Ele disse, um pouco mais ácido. “Você deixou sua calcinha lá, manchou praticamente tudo.”

“Ah, foi mal.” Respondeu, ainda sem presta muita atenção. “Depois eu limpo.”

“Não tem como limpar isso, S/N.” Ele falou.

“Ué, quer que eu faça o quê então?” Você falou, finalmente se virando para ele. “Quer que eu compre tudo novo?”

“Não, S/N, eu não quero que você compre tudo novo. Só quero que preste mais atenção nessas coisas, é pedir muito?” Ele disse, já perdendo a calma.

“Eu presto atenção! Mas as vezes isso acontece, ué.” Disse, franzindo o cenho.

“Às vezes acontece?” Ele repetiu suas palavras, indignado. “Ah por favor… você não presta atenção nenhuma nas coisas de casa, mal faz qualquer coisa, e a única coisa que vez conseguiu fazer errado.” Ele se estressou.

“Eu não faço nada aqui?” Você disse, claramente ofendide. “Tá de brincadeira né, Hoseok? Claro que eu faço! Mas você vive aí se achando e nem presta atenção nisso!”

“Eu me achando?” Ele perdeu a cabeça. “Ué, não sei, talvez seja só porque eu de fato faço tudo aqui então tenho o direito de me achar um pouquinho!” Ele insistiu, fazendo você revirar os olhos. “Aí, ó! Tá vendo? Você não leva nada a sério, e quer reclamar que eu me acho…”

Depois disso, você mal teve chance de falar mais qualquer coisa, antes dele ir pro quarto de vocês e se trancar lá. Você soltou um suspiro, frustrade, mal conseguindo se concentrar no computador de novo, e se perguntando o que poderia fazer pra resolver isso.

Park Jimin

O Jimin amava o seu trabalho, amava mesmo. Mas as vezes, ele acabava com a sua sanidade, principalmente quando tinha algum projeto solo, como é o caso atual.

Preparar um álbum em grupo já é difícil, e isso porque tem mais seis grandes artistas para dividir a responsabilidade com, mas solos? Toda a cobrança e expectativa ficava em cima dele, e ele era quem mais se cobrava, de longe.

Tudo isso claramente tinha um efeito em seu relacionamento. O Jimin não tinha tempo pra você, e quando tinha estava tão cansado e estressado que mal faziam qualquer coisa. Mas não era o suficiente ainda pra fazer você desistir de tentar e fazer as coisas mais fáceis para ele.

“Hey…” Você falou da porta do quarto enquanto via ele sair do banho. “Quer assistir um filme ou algo assim? Faz tempo que a gente não faz nada juntos…”

“Hoje não, Jagi… eu tô muito cansado.” Ele disse com um suspiro enquanto secava o cabelo dele com a toalha mesmo.

“Por favor, amor…” Você insistiu, manhosa. “É só um filminho, não é nada demais, só ficar deitadinho alí comigo e pronto…”

“Não, Jagi… já falei.” Ele soltou um suspiro, frustrado. “Você não faz ideia do quão cansado meu trabalho me faz, né? Você acha que é só dançar cantar e ser bonito por aí? Que eu não fico física e emocionalmente drenado?”

“Não foi isso que eu disse…” Você tentou intervir quando viu o quão estressado ele estava ficando.

“Mas parece que é o que pensa!” Ele falou, claramente perdendo a paciência. “Você não leva meu trabalho a sério não é? Mas devia começar, principalmente porque é o que te dá todos os luxos que quer ter.” Você se sentiu genuinamente ofendide com essas palavras dele.

“Olha, primeiro que eu levo o seu trabalho muito a sério, já devia saber disso a essa altura do campeonato!” Disse, nervose agora também. “Segundo que eu não estou com você por conta do seu dinheiro ou dos luxos ou seja lá que merda que tá pensando, e o fato que ainda acha isso de mim é muito baixo, Jimin.” Você viu como ele parece ter se arrependido pelo o que disse, mas não te disse nada, então você continuou. “Eu só queria te ajudar a relaxar um pouco, exatamente porque sei o quanto o trabalho está te destruindo, mas se não quer okay, continua se matando, vê se eu ligo!”

“É, acho que eu vou mesmo.” Foi tudo o que ele falou, antes de simplesmente se vestir e ir embora, te deixando sozinhe.

Vocês nunca tinham brigado assim antes, e era óbvio que ambos estavam arrependidos de tudo o que disseram, mas o orgulho de casa um não os deixava se desculpar ou fazer algo para concertar a bagunça que fizeram… pelo menos não por enquanto.

Kim Taehyung

Quando Taehyung te pediu para postar algumas fotos que tiraram juntos na primeira viagem que fizeram sozinhos, você já sentia que a reação geral talvez não fosse das melhores, mas mesmo assim concordou, achando que provavelmente não seria nada muito diferente do hate que recebia normalmente. Mas ah se arrependimento matasse…

As pessoas estavam sem piedade alguma nos comentários do post. Falavam sobre cada detalhe da sua aparência, te chamavam de interesseire, diziam que o Tae merecia alguem muito melhor, e tudo de mais baixo e ofensivo que podia pensar. Chegou em um ponto que você estava tão mal com o post, que apenas saber que ele ainda estava lá já te colocava para baixo, mesmo que não estivesse mais conferindo os comentários.

“Tae… você pode apagar aquele post que fez comigo?” Você finalmente cedeu a pressão.

“Apagar? Por que?” Ele perguntou, claramente preocupado, já te puxando para um abraço.

“Os comentários tão demais…” Você murmurou, o abraçando de volta. “É melhor se você só apagar…”

“Ah, Jagi…” Ele falou, se afastando apenas o suficiente para te olhar. “Mas aquelas fotos significam tanto pra mim…”

“Eu sei que elas significam muito pra você…” Você soltou um suspiro. “Pra mim também, mas a gente pode sei lá, fazer um álbum, enquadrar… não precisa postar.”

“Mas eu quero que as pessoas vejam.” Ele franziu o cenho. “Tem muita gente que está demonstrando felicidade pela gente.”

“Eu sei, Tae, mas ainda assim…” Disse, saindo do abraço dele, mas ele logo te puxou para perto dele de novo.

“Jagi… não tem porque se preocupar tanto com isso, você sabe que eles estão falando isso só pra te afetar…” Ele falou, segurando seu rosto com carinho. “Você é a pessoa mais perfeita do mundo, é por quem eu me apaixonei, e nada que ninguém diz vai mudar isso…”

“Eu sei, Tae…” Você suspirou, de forma frustrada. “Mas mesmo assim… não custa nada você só apagar o post, não é? Se está me deixando pra baixo, que mal faz?” Você sabia que estava sendo um pouco dura demais com o seu tom de voz, principalmente considerando que ele estava sendo nada além de carinhoso com você. Mas ainda assim… a insegurança que tava te controlando não estava deixando que tivesse muito senso.

“Você quer mesmo isso?” Ele perguntou, de uma forma um pouco mais fria. “Vai mesmo apagar uma coisa que representa nosso amor só por causa do que pessoas que não sabem nada sobre nós estão dizendo?” Ele franziu o cenho, e se afastou, fazendo você sentir falta do toque dele instantaneamente.

“Tae, não é isso…” Disse, já sentindo o arrependimento de não ter simplesmente conversado com mais calma te tomar.

“Não. Esquece. Eu vou apagar o post.” Ele falou, já se afastando. “Desculpa por tentar mostrar pro mundo quem eu amo, não vai se repetir.” Ele falou, claramente frustrado.

Vocês dois não conversaram mais pelo resto do dia. Você chateade por ele ter se ofendido tanto por algo que não devia ser tão sério assim, mas também arrependide por não ter conversado, e ele chateado por sentir que você não estava dando ouvidos ao que ele estava te dizendo e não levava o amor dele a sério, mas também arrependido por ter perdido a cabeça em um momento em que você estava visivelmente frágil. Afinal, o misto de nervosismo e vergonha impediu os dois de se enfrentarem de novo com sinceridade por um tempo pelo menos.

Jeon Jungkook

Sabe aqueles dias que está absolutamente tudo dando errado e você coloca toda a sua felicidade em uma coisa tão pequena, mas que se essa coisinha acaba dando errado também e você simplesmente explode? Pois é. Foi isso que deu origem à sua primeira briga com o Jungkook. E a coisa pequenina que causou tanto caos? Um mísero pedaço de bolo.

Em sua defesa, não era qualquer bolo, okay? Era um pedaço de bolo de uma confeitaria muito difícil de conseguir, de um sabor que faziam apenas pouquíssimos por semana, e que você estava guardando para finalmente poder comer na sexta feira a noite, e calhou perfeitamente no dia em que tudo tinha dado errado. Tinha sido humilhade no trabalho, levado bronca do seu chefe, xingade no trânsito, e ainda levado desaforo de um vizinho que veio brigar com você por algo que não fez porque te confundiu com outra pessoa.

Por isso, assim que chegou no apartamento, foi até a geladeira, abrindo e procurando pelo seu tão querido bolo. Mas… ele não estava lá. Você procurou, procurou e procurou, mas nada. Até que decidiu olhar na pia, e lá esta um pratinho sujo com um glacê muito bem conhecido por você.

“Jungkook você comeu o bolo que eu tinha guardado na geladeira?” Perguntou para ele, que mal tirou os olhos da televisão para te responder.

“Ah… comi, foi mal.” Ele falou, sem se importar muito. “Amanhã compro outro pra você.”

Essas simples palavras foram capazes de te quebrar. Quando o Jungkook finalmente olhou para você, estranhando seu silêncio, ele se assustou imediatamente ao ver seus olhos marejados. O pânico tomou conta dele, que se levantou e tentou se aproximar de você, completamente perdido do que fazer.

“Jagi… você tá chorando? Por causa de um bolo?” Ah se ele tivesse pensado um pouquinho mais antes de falar ao invés de agir no desespero dele.

Depois disso foi por água a baixo. Tiveram gritos seus, mais choro, mais grito, enfim, você colocou pra fora tudo o que tava guardando dentro de você, o que não seria errado, se você não tivesse descontado tudo no pobre do Jungkook, que só ouviu tudo em silêncio, a beira das lágrimas também por te ver tão mal, mas sem saber o que ao menos fazer naquela situação.

Depois de tudo, você simplesmente foi embora, sem dizer pra onde ia. O Jungkook estava obviamente se matando de preocupação, mas tudo o que ele pode fazer foi ficar vidrado no aplicativo que vocês dividiam onde podiam ver a localização um do outro, para garantir que não tinha ido para nenhum lugar perigoso. Quando viu que seu carros estacionou na casa da sua melhor amiga, ele se permitiu relaxar um pouquinho, mas ainda ficou com o celular grudado na mão dele, preparado para seja lá o que você pudesse precisar de repente.

Oioio!i Tudo bem??

Gente faz tanto mas tanto tempo que eu não escrevo coisa com os meninos scrr, então por favor me desculpem se eu tiver meio enferrujada, e se tiver ruim e afins maaaas é melhor que nada, né??

Enfim, espero que tenham pelo menos matado a saudade um pouquinho, e me desculpem por qualquer erro!

Fiquem bem!!

[jungkoode]

OFF-LABELS | O8

→ PAIRING : Med Student!Hoseok x F!Reader (Brother’s Best Friend AU)

→ RATING: Mature, 18+, suggestive tones.

→ DATE POSTED: March 3rd, 2025.

→ SUMMARY: You’ve spent four years convincing yourself that your brother’s best friend is just being nice when he remembers your coffee order, quizzes you on neuroanatomy, or lets his touch linger a second too long. Because there��s no way that the golden boy of Seoul National’s medical program might actually be flirting with you. Especially when he keeps saying things that could be perfectly innocent… if only he didn’t say them in that voice.

→ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, medical school au, brother’s best friend trope, age gap (4 years), pining, touch starved, overthinking reader, confident hoseok, gentle dom hoseok, medical terminology as flirting (lmao), study sessions, domestic moments, innocent (but not really), plausible deniability king hoseok, anxiety, internal monologue, guilty crushes, subtle teasing, emotional edging, gentle manipulation, praise kink undertones, intellectual attraction, competency kink, hand fixation, voice kink, medical intern hoseok, first year med student reader, home setting, casual intimacy, unresolved sexual tension (for now), secret attraction, nervous rambling, self-doubt, intrusive thoughts, anatomy lessons with ulterior motives, competent hoseok, flustered reader, close proximity, accidental touches that aren’t accidents, virgin!reader.

→ CONTENT in this chapter: Failed attempts at normal Friday nights, tequila-fueled bad decisions, drunk texting that definitely crosses lines, deliberately provoking reactions, pink sets making reappearances, and countdown timers that feel like threats (or promises). | drunk texting, emotional provocation, jealousy, possessive behavior, failed rebounds, tequila courage, late night messages, countdown tension, deliberate misbehavior, text conversations, bar settings, alcohol consumption, purposeful disobedience, revenge flirting, provoked responses.

→ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,6k

→ MINI SERIES: PREVIOUS | NEXT

→ A/N: Sometimes it takes tequila and spite to say what you really mean. This chapter is dedicated to everyone who's ever sent that one text they absolutely shouldn't have (but definitely meant). Also to anyone who's ever tried to move on and realized they're ruined for normal flirting. Special thanks to my friends who had to watch me spiral while writing this - your emotional support and drink recommendations were crucial to this mess.

PLAYLIST

The screen blurs as you stare at his contact—a blank gray circle where his photo used to be. The one of him and Caleb at graduation, both grinning, arms slung around each other's shoulders.

Gone.

Your thumb hovers over the message thread. The last thing he sent stares back at you, clinical and cold:

Hoseok: 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢.

Three words.

That's all it took to unravel everything—all the heated glances, the lingering touches, the way he'd made you feel seen and wanted and his.

(Stupid. You were so stupid.)

The phone hits the wall with a satisfying crack. You don't check if the screen's broken. Don't care. Let it shatter like everything else.

Because that's what this is, isn't it? He'd played you perfectly—drawing you in with gentle words and meaningless touches, making you question your own sanity until you were desperate for confirmation. Until you were willing to do anything just to prove you weren't imagining it all.

And now?

Now he's gone.

Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Just another conquest, another game won, another—

A soft knock interrupts your spiral.

"Y/N?" Caleb's voice filters through the door, concerned but not pushing. "You okay?"

You swallow hard, swiping at your eyes. "Fine."

The door creaks open anyway.

Your brother takes one look at you—curled up in your desk chair, eyes red-rimmed, phone face-down on the floor—and something in his expression shifts.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't pry. Just disappears briefly and returns with two mugs of chamomile tea, the kind mom always makes when either of you is upset.

"Scoot." He nudges you over, settling on the floor beside your chair. "Found that terrible rom-com you like. The one with the talking cats."

A wet laugh escapes before you can stop it. "It's not terrible."

"It's horrific." But he's already pulling up Netflix on his phone, patting the space next to him until you slide down to join him.

The tea is too hot and slightly too sweet—he always adds an extra spoonful of honey—but it warms something frozen in your chest. You lean against his shoulder as the movie starts, breathing in the familiar scent of mom’s laundry detergent and that stupid cologne your aunt always gifts him for Christmas.

He doesn't mention how your shoulders shake slightly. Doesn't comment on the damp spot growing on his sleeve. Just wraps an arm around you and lets you hide your face when the tears come faster.

It's going to be okay.

(It has to be okay.)

Your phone buzzes weakly from its place on the floor. You don't check it.

Some things are better left broken.

You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince yourself this is a good idea.

Kiara had been insistent—persistent—about dragging you out tonight. "You need this," she'd declared, rifling through your closet with terrifying efficiency. "Fresh air. Good music. Hot strangers who aren't emotionally constipated medical residents."

(You hadn't told her about Hoseok. Hadn't told anyone. But somehow she knew—the way best friends always do.)

The dress she picked is shorter than you'd usually wear, black fabric clinging to curves you normally hide under oversized sweaters. Your legs look longer in the heels she forced on you, and the smokey eye makeup makes you look... different. Older.

Less like the nervous med student who stammers through anatomy presentations.

Less like his Chip.

Your throat tightens. You reach for your phone automatically—to check if he's unblocked you, to see if he's noticed your absence, to—

"Don't you dare." Kiara appears in the doorway, looking unfairly gorgeous in a red dress. She snatches your phone, dropping it into her clutch. "No drunk texting allowed."

"I wasn't going to—"

"Sure." She starts fixing your lipstick. "And I'm not planning to get absolutely destroyed on tequila shots."

You manage a weak laugh. "You're buying."

"Obviously." She steps back, examining her work with critical eyes. "There. Now you look properly devastating." Her grin turns wicked. "Let's go make some bad decisions."

And that’s how you somehow end up in one of those trendy pubs near campus.

Which is, by the way, absolutely packed when you arrive—music thrumming through the floorboards and lighting making everyone look airbrushed.

The bass line manages to drown out the voice in your head that sounds suspiciously like him.

Kiara orders shots immediately. The tequila burns going down, but it's better than the ache that's been living in your sternum for days.

"To terrible men," she declares, raising another glass.

"To terrible decisions," you counter, and the lime tastes like freedom when you bite down.

And three shots later, the edges of everything finally start to blur pleasantly.

The music feels like it's flowing through your veins, making your hips sway without conscious thought. Kiara drags you to the dance floor, her laugh bright and infectious as she spins you around.

"See?" She has to shout over the bass. "This is what Friday nights are supposed to feel like!"

And maybe she's right. Maybe this is better than sitting in your room, staring at your phone, waiting for a message that's never going to come. Maybe this—the plethora of bodies moving around you, the asphyxiating burn of tequila, the way your dress slides against your skin when you dance—is exactly what you need.

You close your eyes, letting the music take over. Let yourself forget about gentle voices and surgical hands and the way he'd looked at you like you were something precious right before he—

No.

Not tonight.

Tonight is for dancing and drinking and pretending your heart isn't still beating in morse code: Ho-seok, Ho-seok, Ho-seok.

(But god, even the bass line sounds like his laugh.)

The tequila makes your phone screen swim as you glare at his contactless profile. The gray circle mocks you—empty and cold like his stupid perfect soul.

"Look at you," you slur at the blank icon. "Not even a picture anymore. Too good for pictures now? Too busy being tall and successful and making people question their sanity?"

Kiara—who apparently managed to grab a mojito at some point—now snorts into her glass. "Honey..."

"And your hands." You jab accusingly at the screen. "Why are they so big? Who gave you permission? Stupid... stupid surgeon hands with their stupid... precision."

"Okay, that's enough." Kiara tries to grab your phone, but you clutch it to your chest.

"No wait, I'm not done insulting his perfect face. Which isn't even here anymore because he's too important for profile pictures apparently." You hiccup. "Probably busy being gentle and professional somewhere else. With his stupid rolled-up sleeves and his stupid honey voice and his stupid—"

"Perfect bone structure?" Kiara supplies helpfully.

"Yes!" You slump against the bar. "It's offensive. His whole... everything is offensive. Criminal, even. We should report him to the medical board for being unreasonably attractive while also being a complete—"

"Asshole?"

"I was gonna say bastard but yes." You squint at the screen again. "Look at him. Not looking at us. With his not-picture. Rude."

Kiara pats your head sympathetically. "Come on, disaster. Let's find you someone who actually shows up in photos."

As if summoned by her words, two guys materialize beside your table. The taller one—dark hair, nice smile, definitely not wearing a white coat or speaking in medical terminology—leans against the bar.

"Can we buy you ladies a drink?"

You open your mouth to decline, but Kiara kicks you under the table.

"We'd love that," she says smoothly. "I'm Kiara, this is Y/N."

"James," the tall one offers. "This is Mike."

Mike waves, sliding onto the stool next to you. He's cute, in a slightly tired way—the kind that comes from hospital rotations and too little sleep.

"Med student?" he asks, noticing your distracted glance at your phone.

"How'd you guess?" you ask.

"The thousand-yard stare," he laughs. "I'm doing my internship at SNU. Just started the emergency rotation last week."

You manage a small smile. Med student, intern—at least he's not a certain first-year resident with surgical hands and a talent for making you question your sanity.

"So," Mike asks, "what brings you here tonight?"

"Emotional devastation," you announce before Kiara can stop you. "Also tequila."

He laughs—a normal laugh, not a honey-dripped chuckle designed to make your knees weak. "Sounds like there's a story there."

"Oh, there's a story." You straighten up, warming to your topic. "See, there's this guy—"

Kiara slaps her hand over your mouth. "Who we are not talking about tonight!" She smiles brilliantly at James and Mike. "How about those drinks?"

You lick her palm until she releases you with a yelp.

"Fine," you concede, accepting the fresh margarita Mike slides your way. "No talking about He Who Must Not Be Named."

"Voldemort?" James jokes.

You snort into your drink. "Worse. He's a doctor."

Mike winces sympathetically. "Ah. One of those."

"Exactly!" You point at him triumphantly. "One of those. With their... their competence and their steady hands and their stupid ability to make everything sound like a medical procedure—"

Kiara kicks you again. "Drinks," she reminds you firmly. "We're drinking and dancing and not thinking about certain medical professionals who shall remain nameless."

"Right." You take a long sip of margarita. "No thinking about names. Or nicknames. Or the way certain people say certain nicknames like they're tasting them—"

"Dance floor!" Kiara announces loudly, grabbing your arm. "We're going to the dance floor now!"

As she drags you away, you hear Mike ask James: "Should we be concerned?"

"Probably," James replies, but he's following anyway.

You let Kiara pull you into the crowd, the bass drowning out your thoughts. It's fine. You're fine.

And if you check your phone one more time—just to glare at the blank profile picture and maybe compose a strongly worded text about the audacity of certain medical residents—well.

That's between you and the tequila.

Definitely not between your bones and Mike as hemoves closer, hand settling tentatively on your waist.

You know he’s being polite about it—know he’s asking permission with his eyes, keeping a respectful distance.

It's nice.

Normal.

Boring.

(No. Not boring. Safe. This is what normal flirting feels like. Not... whatever psychological warfare Hoseok had been waging.)

"You're a good dancer," Mike says, and his voice is perfectly pleasant. No syrupy-thick manipulation. No clinical observations about your hip mobility.

"Thanks." You manage a smile that only feels slightly forced. "You too."

He grins—an uncomplicated expression that doesn't hide any surgical precision behind it. "Want to get some air? Maybe..." He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Take a smoke break?"

You don't smoke. Have never smoked. Would normally launch into a lecture about pulmonary health risks and carcinogenic compounds because you're that kind of med student.

But.

But tonight you're wearing a dress that makes you feel dangerous, and your lips still taste like tequila, and somewhere across the city he's probably being perfect and untouchable and—

"Yes." The word tumbles out before you can stop it. "Air sounds good."

Kiara catches your eye across the dance floor, raising an eyebrow in silent question. You wave her off, letting Mike guide you through the crowd toward the exit.

The night air hits your bare shoulders like a slap, sobering and sharp. Mike leans against the brick wall, offering you the pack with another easy smile.

You take a cigarette because you're drunk and stupid and maybe trying to prove something to yourself. Or to him.

(Everything feels like it's about him lately.)

"Here." Mike cups his hands around the flame, shielding it from the breeze as you lean in.

The first inhale burns—acrid and harsh and nothing like the way his mouth had burned against yours. You manage not to cough, but it's a near thing.

"Not a regular smoker?" Mike asks, amused.

You shake your head, watching the ember glow in the darkness. "First time, actually."

His eyebrows lift. "Shit, really? Should've told me. We could've started you with something lighter."

The concern in his voice makes something in your chest twist. Because it's nice. He's being nice. And you're standing here thinking about someone else's mouth and someone else's hands and—

"Sorry," you blurt out. "I'm kind of a mess right now."

Mike's laugh is gentle. "Yeah, I got that impression." He takes a drag, smoke curling between you. "Want to talk about it?"

"God no." You attempt another inhale, managing not to choke this time. "I want to forget about it."

His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to yours. "I could help with that."

The invitation is clear. Simple. Uncomplicated.

You could do it. Could let this nice, normal boy kiss you against the brick wall. Could replace the memory of bergamot with something softer. Safer.

Could prove that you're not still thinking about gentle poison and cloying praise and the way his fingers had—

"I can't." The words taste like ash. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Hey." Mike straightens, hands lifting in surrender. "No pressure. We can just talk. Or not talk." He grins. "Or you can keep pretending to enjoy that cigarette while plotting revenge against whatever doctor broke your heart."

A laugh bubbles up—slightly hysterical but real. "That obvious?"

"Little bit." He takes the cigarette from your trembling fingers, stubbing it out. "Come on. Let's get you some water before your friend murders me for letting you smoke."

You let him lead you back inside, grateful for the simple kindness of it. For the way he doesn't push or pry or try to take advantage of your obvious vulnerability.

It's nice.

Normal.

Right.

(So why does it feel so wrong?)

Your phone buzzes in your clutch.

You ignore it.

Some habits are harder to break than others.

The rest of the night blurs into a mess of well-meaning moments that all feel slightly wrong. Mike gets you water, makes sure you're steady on your feet, laughs at your increasingly unfiltered commentary about medical school.

He's perfect.

And that's the problem.

Because your drunk brain keeps cataloging all the ways he's not perfect enough. His hands are normal-sized. His smile doesn't hide anything. When he touches your elbow to steady you, it's just... a touch. No clinical observations about proprioception or balance compensation.

"You doing okay?" he asks for the third time, and his concern is so genuine it makes your teeth hurt.

"I'm fine," you lie, but what you mean is: you're not him.

You're not fine. You're drunk and touch-starved and maybe a little broken, because apparently regular flirting feels empty now. Like eating sugar-free candy when you know exactly how the real thing tastes.

"Want to dance again?" Mike offers, and you almost say yes because that's what you're supposed to want.

Normal girl, normal boy, normal Friday night.

But.

But your skin feels too tight and your head is spinning and all you can think about is how he would handle this—how he'd steady you with those surgeon's hands and murmur something about vestibular dysfunction while his thumb pressed against your pulse.

"I need air," you announce, pushing away from the bar.

Your heel catches on nothing, sending you stumbling.

Mike reaches for you, but you're already righting yourself, muscle memory kicking in as you adjust your center of gravity.

"Excellent compensatory response," you mutter in his voice, then laugh because you're definitely losing it.

"What?"

"Nothing." You wave off Mike's concerned look. "Just... medical student things."

"I get it," he says with a knowing smile. "The terminology gets stuck in your head after a while. My attending at SNU is always going on about proprioception and vestibular function."

Your stomach drops at the mention of SNU. "Which department?"

"Emergency, but we rotate through different services. This week I've been with the surgical team." He shrugs. "It's intense, but the residents are mostly cool."

You nod, wondering if he's ever supervised Mike, if they've worked side by side while you were sitting at home staring at your phone.

He smiles like he understands, but he doesn't. Can't. Because he's never had someone turn basic anatomy into psychological warfare. Never had someone make him question his own sanity with plausible deniability and careful touches and—

"Text me?" Mike's voice cuts through your spiral.

Your eyes flicker down to his hand. He's holding out his phone, expression hopeful.

You stare at it. At his normal, nice, completely uncomplicated contact page with its normal, nice, completely visible profile picture.

"I can't," you say finally, and you mean: I'm ruined for normal now.

His smile is understanding. Kind. "The doctor?"

"The doctor," you confirm, and you hate how your voice catches on the word.

Kiara immediately appears at your elbow—your guardian angel in four-inch heels. "Let’s get some air." She waves to Mike. "Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

"Anytime." He means it too, which makes it worse somehow.

You both make it outside. The night air feels like clarity. Kiara tucks you against her shoulder as you let out a soft sigh.

"He’s nice," she says finally.

"Yeah." You close your eyes, remembering gentle smiles and normal hands and complete lack of medical terminology. "Too nice."

"Oh honey." She strokes your hair. "You're so fucked."

You laugh until you cry, because she has no idea how right she is. How thoroughly, completely, deliberately fucked you've been by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

Your phone buzzes.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢. 𝙳𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.

Your heart stops.

“Y/N.” Kiara mutters, glancing down at your screen.

“Give me a second.” You reply, voice slightly slurred.

Because you know that clinical concern. Know that detached tone that sounds like medical advice but feels like ownership.

Your fingers slip on the keyboard as you type:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜??? 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚎𝚔 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 # 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚖𝚛 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚢?? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚃

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

The nickname makes you see red. You practically stab the screen with your thumbs:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙳𝙾𝙽𝚃. 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙿. 𝙼𝙴. 𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺𝙳 𝙼𝙴

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚛 𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚝????? 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑????? 𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 “𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢” 𝚑𝚞𝚑?????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝙾 𝚞𝚛 𝚊 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳. 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝚃 𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙻𝙲𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙼𝚛 𝙱𝚒𝚐 𝙱𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝙼𝚊𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚕?????? 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you wait.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚑 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚘??? 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙴 𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽???

The dots return, lingering longer this time.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾. 𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚍. 𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝚄

𝐘𝐨𝐮: …𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚝𝚠. 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍. 𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚆𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝙼𝚒𝚔𝚎?

You grin viciously at the sharp edge in those two words.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚄 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚠𝚘

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚝????? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚣 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜????? 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚎?????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴. 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛????? 𝚒𝚖 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢/𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚢/𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺 𝙷𝙴𝚁

You jab at the send button, chest rising too fast, too unsteady, because fuck him.

Fuck him for watching you from a distance. Fuck him for pretending he wasn’t. Fuck him for texting you when he’s the one who left—for acting like he still has a say in what you do, who you see, how much you drink.

Fuck him for making you like this.

Your fingers curl tighter around your phone, the alcohol thick in your bloodstream, pulse scalding under your skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but all you can see is him. That fucking look on his face, like you’d somehow made him the victim.

Like he was the one suffering.

You shove your phone back into your bag, stomach twisting, vision tilting—

And then you pull it right back out.

Because you can’t escape inevitability, even as much as you wish you could.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚛𝚗

The dots appear instantly, then vanish. Your heart pounds as you push further:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚞 𝚒 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍

A long pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙿𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝.

Your lips curve, knowing you’ve got him. Even through the alcohol haze, you can feel the shift in his tone—the way the period instead of a question mark betrays his tension. Curiosity. Intrigue.

Attraction.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝚊𝚋𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚊𝚐 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. You press on:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚘. 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈/𝙽.

Full name. You’re getting to him.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒 𝚐𝚘𝚝??? 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚗𝚘𝚠???

The response is immediate:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝???? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚖𝚎??? 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚗????

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙻𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗??? 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚘𝚗????

Another pause. Then:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢??? 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙵𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Your thighs clench at the curse. Because this—this is what you wanted. What you want. Him cursing. Him losing it, like you’ve lost it—medical terminology abandoned.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚍𝚛 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚐. 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚊𝚕

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙶𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚡𝚒. 𝙽𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔

The response is lightning fast:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚙𝚊𝚕.

The threat has your knees wobbling.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜???

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

Three dots appear. Linger. Disappear. Your phone buzzes with a location pin instead.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟸𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

You stare at the address, feeling slightly bold. Slightly reckless. Because that’s his apartment. Where he’d almost—where you’d nearly—

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙸 𝚊𝚖.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚎𝚜?

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝟷𝟿 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝚒 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

His reply makes you, indeed, not want to behave at all.

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢. 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚢. 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎????

Three dots appear one last time:

𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫: 𝟷𝟾 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚙. 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚔.

You send him a middle finger emoji and watch the dots appear, disappear, appear again.

Let him stew.

You’ve got 17 minutes to decide just how badly you want to misbehave.

(Very badly, as it turns out.)

→ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @just-reading-dany @sanarin @billy-jeans23 @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218

© 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓.

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[mylovesstuffs]

J-Hope version !

series masterlist

This is my personal opinion and perspective. It may not accurately reflect their real-life personalities or behaviors.

Hoseok is totally caught off guard by his feelings for you. He never expected to develop a crush on you, especially since he saw you as just a friend. But one day, he catches himself feeling a little too happy to see you and realizing he wants more than just friendship.

When he notices you spending more time with your guy best friend, a little jealousy flares up inside of him. He’s trying to hide it with his usual energy and brightness, but there’s a flicker of sadness behind his smile whenever your attention shifts away from him.

Hobi is a master at being positive and fun, but deep down, he’s feeling a bit insecure about his place in your life.

He’s afraid that you might only ever see him as a friend, especially when you ignore his subtle advances in favor of your guy best friend.

When you continue to spend time with your best friend, Hoseok can’t keep it in anymore. He might crack a joke or tease you lightly, but the tone of his voice is slightly off. He’s secretly trying to get your attention, even though he’s pretending it's okay.

Hoseok might seem distant after he notices you ignoring him for your guy friend. He might stop texting or reaching out as much. It’s not because he’s angry—it’s because he’s hurting, and he doesn’t know how to deal with it without risking ruining your friendship.

After seeing you laugh with your best friend for the nth time and noticing the way your eyes light up around him, Hoseok gets frustrated.

In a moment of jealousy, he might pull you aside and tell you, “I think it’s best if you go hang out with him... I don't wanna third wheel right now.” He tries to push you away because he’s afraid of his own feelings.

As much as he tries to convince himself that he’s okay with just being your friend, Hoseok can’t shake the urge to tell you how he feels. His jealousy is only a symptom of how deeply he’s fallen for you. Yet, he holds back because he doesn’t want to risk losing you altogether.

Hoseok struggles with showing his vulnerability. He’s used to being the happy and confident one, so revealing his jealousy feels uncomfortable for him. He won’t admit how hurt he is easily but will try to brush it off with his usual smile.

Instead of confronting you outright, Hoseok might try to make you jealous in small ways. He’ll flirt with other people around you, hoping you’ll notice him in a new light, but still pretending it’s all just for fun.

Eventually, he’ll come to his senses and realize that his jealousy and actions have been over-the-top. He’ll start texting you more, trying to reconnect and apologize for being distant. He’ll admit, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I acted like that. I was just... being stupid.” His vulnerability comes through, and it’s one of the sweetest moments.

Once the dust settles, Hoseok can’t keep his feelings to himself anymore. He might surprise you with a heartfelt confession one day: “I don’t want to just be your friend anymore. I like you—more than just a friend. I’ve been holding this in for too long.” It’s simple but sincere, and you can see the raw emotion in his eyes.

Even after confessing, Hoseok will still give you the space to process things. He knows how to respect boundaries, but deep down, he’s hoping that you’ll come to him, letting him know how you feel. He’ll keep the energy light while waiting for your response.

Once you two have talked things out, Hoseok will make you laugh with playful teasing but the hint of his affection is clear.

He’s not the type to shy away from romantic gestures. After his confession, Hoseok might surprise you with a spontaneous date. A simple, cozy walk through the park or a drive with your favorite music playing, just so you can talk without interruptions.

Once you’re both on the same page, Hoseok will show his affection in little, meaningful ways. He’ll give you spontaneous hugs, sweet kisses on your forehead, and random “I love you”s, all while still maintaining his bubbly energy.

Hoseok is fiercely loyal. Once he’s yours, you’ll never question his commitment. If anyone dares to come too close to you, he’ll give them a subtle warning glance. Not possessive, but protective in the most sweet and subtle way possible.

Hoseok is always laughing with you, sharing his joy with you. When he’s in love, his energy is infectious, and it’s clear that he wants to bring you into his world of happiness. He’ll make sure that you never forget how much he loves you, all while making you smile every single day.

After Hoseok confesses his feelings, you can see the weight lift off his shoulders, and it’s clear that he was just waiting for you to come around. Even if you were unsure at first, his affection made you realize just how much he truly cares. Your friendship blossoms into something more, and he makes sure to never let you forget how special you are to him,

[namfinessed]

go around - j.hs. (preview)

genre: angst, fluff (childhoodcrush! brother'sbestfriend!) (wc)

summary: to everyone else, he was the sun but to you, he was always the moon, the light you grabbed onto when you could see nothing.

release date: tbd (reply if you want to be added to the taglist!)

-

hoseok was fourteen years old when it happened.

you were ten.

and he had thought he was too cool for you then.

you were sitting on the other side of the mary-go-round to him, it was the last but one day of the summer camp you were part of, and you looked at him as if he hung the moon in the sky.

and hoseok felt as high as the moon that night.

but he was also sick to his stomach.

"i like you," you didn't look at him as you said but hoseok could feel that you meant it, that it took a lot for you to get on that mary-go-round with him, spin with him, build the moon in his eyes and then say the words that he believed were stuck in your throat since when you first saw him.

he knew that your brother wouldn't like that you were saying this.

but he knew, even as a kid, that this was the most honest thing anyone's ever told him.

but he was so cool and so close to your brother, who would kill him if hoseok said anything back.

so, he didn't say anything back.

hoseok pursed his lips and looked away. he swears that, to this day, the tears shining in his eyes were nerves and not the frutsration that came with not being able to hold you to the moon too.

the silent rejection didn't yet hit your soft eyes and bare heart.

you kept looking at him, hands gripping the handles so tight that your knuckles changed shades between white and pink and your cheeks puffed, excited and nervous breathes still left your lips.

and hoseok didn't want to be cool for a second there, he didn't want to care about your brother at all, maybe he would just let you take him for a bit, just a bit.

but in your thin eyebrows, he saw your brother.

in your veiny hands, he saw your brother.

in your coily, curly hair, he saw your brother.

so, he got off the mary-go-round, he walked away quickly, not pausing to look at you and he sniffed his tears away, he hugged his jacket closer to his body.

tomorrow, he would be fine.

tomorrow, no one would look at him like he was the moon and he would be okay with it.

but hoseok turned around.

the biggest mistake of his life.

the moon you thought him to be, cast a glow on the tears gathering on your chin and his heart wrenched.

the next day, your brother, his best friend, died.

and you never spoke a word to hoseok again.

-

[inkjam-moon]

In honor of Hobi's discharge, bathroom encounter at a Halloween party? Any idea you'd have around that's perfect

A/N:LMAO I don't know if this even makes szense i had to much to drink so enjoyyyyyy

“Oh my god, that’s so funny!” Jiyeon cackles as the guy next to her whispers what you can only assume are jokes in her ear.

You take another sip of whatever concoction is in your cup before you hear what sounds like a very familiar voice from behind you. Your ears perk up as you swivel your head, looking around for the source and sure enough, after a few moments of scanning the room you spot him dressed as a basketball player, nearly spitting out your drink as you do. 

Hoseok?

You thought he was still away at his military service. Did that end already? Shit.  You grab Jiyeon’s arm and abruptly tug her away from her new friend, dragging her to the hallway out of sight.

“Y/N, what the hell?” She squeaks.

“Unnie, he’s back.” You state, eyes wide in terror.

“Who?”

“Hoseok.”

Jiyeon’s eyes widen. “There’s no way.” You nod your head in his direction and she turns to look. “Oh shit.” She turns back to you. “Do… Do you want to leave?”

You immediately shake your head no, knowing how much fun she’s having. “I think… I think I'm just going to run to the bathroom real quick and clear my head so I don't do anything stupid.”

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” She rubs your arm in an attempt to comfort you and you nod before turning and heading down the hallway to the bathroom. 

You enter the small confines of the room and shut and lock the door. You grip the counter tightly, looking down at the sink as you try to breathe. He’s back. You can’t believe he’s back just when you thought you were finally rid of him. 

Truth be told, you had the biggest crush on him. You were close friends once upon a time, but you let your feelings get in the way of the friendship around the time he found out he was leaving for his military service. You were told by his friend and you were heartbroken that he didn’t tell you himself. The two of you had begun seeing less and less of each other as you kept canceling plans, or blowing him off because you thought he didn’t care enough about you to even tell you he was leaving. The day he left you went to see him with the rest of your friends and the two of you got into a huge argument where you ended up slapping him across the face when he asked “Why do you even care if I leave, it’s not like you want to see me anymore”. 

You haven’t seen or contacted each other since. 

But now he’s back. And of course he’s at the halloween party too. You sigh heavily as you look at yourself in the mirror. You turn on the cold water and flick a few droplets in your face to help calm you down. You’re just going to have to avoid him. Yep that’s what you’re going to do. And if he sees you? At least you look sexy as hell. He can eat his heart out.

You check your makeup in the mirror before standing up and adjusting your nurse costume, letting a little more cleavage show. You do a once over one more time before unlocking the door and opening to find someone about to knock on the other side. You lock eyes with the only person you don’t want to see. 

“Y/N-ah…”

“Hobi…”

You both just stand there staring at each other for a solid minute, searching each other’s faces for something before Hoseok quickly pushes you back into the bathroom with him and locks the door behind him.

“I-I’ve been looking for you.” He mumbles. “I saw Jiyeon.”

“Why… Why were you looking for me?” You question, genuinely confused.

“Because I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Hoseok sighs. “Listen… I know things were, well, rough when I was leaving. I really wanted to apologize.”

You scoff. “Apologize? Hoseok, it's been a year. I’m over it.” He raises his eyebrows at you and you look away, both of you know you’re lying.

“Look, Joon told me why you were so upset with me and now I understand what happened.”

“Right.” You roll your eyes, hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Forgive me or not Y/N, I need you to know that I was going to tell you.”

“You think I was upset because you didn’t tell me your service was starting?”

He furrows his eyebrows. “I… I thought so yeah.”

“That was such a small part of it.” You shake your head.

“What was it then?”

“Ugh, Hoseok I was-” You sigh, dragging your hands over your face. “I liked you, okay? I had the biggest crush on you and you didn’t feel the same way. When you didn’t tell me you were leaving, it kind of just solidified that for me, so by distancing myself from you I thought I was doing you a favor… And then you thought I didn't want to see you anymore? Are you kidding? I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do with myself when you left.” You admit, devastated to finally tell him the truth.

He raises his hand to his cheek as if feeling the true sting of your slap for the first time. “So we haven’t talked in a year because of a misunderstanding?”

You nod, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship… and by doing that … I ruined our friendship.”

“I thought you just hated me.”

“Hobi, I could never hate you.” You stare down at your lap until you feel a hand tilting your chin back up. You meet Hoseok’s gaze for only a second before he leans forward and presses his lips against yours. You pull away after only a few seconds, your eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

He chuckles, his thumb brushing your chin. “Y/N-ah… don’t you know I’m crazy about you?”

“W-what?”

“I was going to tell you the same night I was going to tell you I was leaving, but someone told you first, and then you kept blowing me off; you never gave me the chance. And then that fight.”

“Hoseok, I’m so sorry.” You shake your head in amazement, giggling a bit at the fact that it really was just a big misunderstanding. 

He shrugs, brushing your hair out of your face. “We were both really dumb, huh?”

“So dumb.”

And with that his lips are back on yours. You let yourself get lost in the feeling this time, loving the way his mouth seems to caress yours so gently and yet so desperately at the same time. He stands between your legs and wastes no time in prodding at your lips with his tongue. You accept his request, letting his tongue tangle with yours as your hands grip his shirt, pulling him closer, having waited so long for this moment you never thought would happen. 

It isn’t long before you feel something pressing against your center and you quickly slip a hand down, cupping his hardening length over his shorts as your own arousal begins to soak your panties. 

“Y/N-ah, what-?” He gasps at the touch. 

“I need you inside me.” You whine, tugging at his waistband.

“N-now? You don’t want to wai-”

“I don’t want to wait for you any longer.” You insist, finally managing to slip his shorts down his legs. 

“Shit that’s hot.” He curses, dropping his boxers to the floor as well. You watch his thick length bounce as he pulls you up to the edge of the counter, slipping one of his hands under your costume and pulling your underwear to the side before scooting as close to you as he can. His cock presses against your core and your body flashes with heat. “Are you sure about this?”

You nod with a whimper. “Please.”

WIth one hand still holding your panties to the side, and the other gripping your waist, he presses his hips forward. You slide a hand down between the two of you to guide him to the right place, and you feel his tip slip past your walls. A low moan leaves your mouth as he stretches you open at an agonizingly slow pace. A slow burn builds between your thighs as he fills you completely, your head falling back as he finally stills. 

Your core pulses around him and you feel his lips on your neck, placing light kisses across the exposed expanse of skin. He grunts when you contract particularly hard around him and he takes that as the sign to start moving. His pace is slow at first, almost unbearably so as he takes his time, making sure to feel the entirety of your body reacting to him. 

“H-Hobi…” You gasp, begging him to move faster. He seems to get the message as his hips pick up the pace, rocking into you faster and faster until the bathroom is filled only with lewd squelching sounds from between your legs, and the rapid, heavy breathing of you both.

After a few minutes of this he seemingly grows tired of smacking into the sink and slips out of you. Before you can protest he helps you down off the counter and spins you around, bending you over the counter and yanking your underwear down just enough before immediately slipping back into your entrance, both of you groaning at the feeling. 

“God, how are you tighter than you were five seconds ago?” He growls.

You can only whimper in response, gripping the counter as Hoseok begins to slam into you, his hips smacking harshly against your ass, the sound echoing around the room. He feels so good, hitting all the right spots inside you that you start seeing stars. The feeling of him inside you is the only thing you can focus on as the feeling sitting low in your abdomen begins to swirl and bend with malicious intent. 

“Hobi I’m- fuck.. I’m gonna cum.” You whine in warning, the sensation between your legs just too good. 

“Shit.” He swears, his grip tightening on your hips. You chance a glance in the mirror to see his eyes focused on the spot where you’re joined together, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brown as he fucks you oh so deliciously. 

The sight alone is enough to snap the coil of your orgasm, slapping a hand over your mouth as you cry out, your core tightening relentlessly around Hoseok’s length as colors explode behind your eyelids. It’s not much longer before Hoseok groans low in his chest, his hips faltering before filling you to the hilt. His grip bruises your hips as he cums, his release hot inside you as he milks the feeling. His hands move to rub your back soothingly, staying seated inside you for a long moment. 

“Fuck… I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He hisses before slowly pulling out of you. 

As your senses return to you, you feel Hoseok’s release drip out of your center, but that's not the only thing you feel. You keep your hand clamped over your mouth, small whines of overstimulation slipping out as Hoseok bends down and slips his tongue into your folds, effectively cleaning up the mess he made as you try not to make a sound, your legs shaking from the feeling when his tongue glides across your clit. 

“Hobi, please~” You beg, trying to pull yourself away from the onslaught of his mouth. When he deems you clean enough, Hoseok pulls your panties back into place and helps you stand, his arm catching your waist when your legs buckle.

“You taste good.” He states like it’s a casual thing. “I should’ve done that first.”

“Do you think anyone heard us?” You ask, pulling your costume back into place as Hoseok cleans himself up and then does the same.

He shakes his head. “Nah, we were quiet.” He pulls you to him and places one last kiss against your lips before unlocking the bathroom door and opening it only to find several questioning faces on the other side, including that of Jiyeon.

“Well,” She smirks wildly at the sight of you two on the other side of the door. “I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t go home.”